Susan Russo Anderson

Murder On The Rue Cassette

Chapter 1: Elena

Paris, April 15, 1874

Elena breathed in, dazzled by the paintings. As she gazed at them, the Siege and the Commune seemed distant memories. France had arisen from its ashes, shimmering in a glorious rebirth, the brightness of the works blinding her.

Her friends had labored so hard and for so many years, shunned by the Salon and their stuffy convention. God knew many of the critics had derided them. Yet the artists persisted.

Turning slowly, she regarded one work, then another and another. Paintings by Degas, Pissarro, Cezanne, Monet, Boudin, Renoir, Morisot, and a host of others she did not know and who did not know her, not yet.

The studio was stuffy tonight with all of Paris here.

“Pardon, Madame. Sorry, I did not see your train.”

“Quite all right,” Elena muttered, fanning herself.

“You too? I can’t breathe,” Etienne said. He ran a finger inside his collar and patted his cravat. “Such hideous dabbling.” He pointed to a painting of a ballerina in blue tulle.

Elena lifted her train, draping the fabric over her arm. “And do keep your voice down or I’ll leave.”

She gestured toward the four walls. “The paintings express a feeling, the grasp of a moment,” she said. “Not that you’d ever understand.”

She watched him squint at a canvas and shake his head. Again she tried to explain the artist’s vision, but he’d made up his mind not to like them. He was so tedious. His taste was so difficult, so bourgeois, his eyes blind to anything new.

“See how she holds her linen? She’s just finished her dance. Her hair is unkempt, still wet in spots from exertion, her skirt filled with light and movement and air. She turns her head toward us, and in that sweet gesture, Renoir has captured the secret of being a child.”

“Too old to be a child, and her hair’s not coiffed. Is it hair?”

“And the legs, are they legs?” a man asked bustling toward them. He had a pinched face and was short. “Cottony-looking if you ask me.” He stood close to the canvas and lifted his nose.

Etienne inclined his head and smiled at the man. “My point exactly.”

“You don’t understand,” Elena said, turning to the newcomer.

Another man approached. “Allow me to explain,” he said. He pulled at his red goatee.

“Oh, Pierre, your paintings are exquisite, such distinctive brush work. Congratulations. But do I know the child?”

“The portrait of a girl, thirteen or perhaps fourteen, and from a prominent family. The painting is an impression of a fleeting moment, like all the works here.” His hand encompassed the room.

He was interrupted by a woman with a large bosom wearing a mauve dress. She peered into her lorgnette. “Such a darling child.”

“Darling?” Renoir asked and turned away.

Elena took Renoir’s arm and whispered, “Take the praise, forget the rest.”

Etienne strode away, wiping the shoulders of his frock coat. “I haven’t time for these sketches.”

From the moment they entered the room, she’d seen Etienne’s discomfort as he scanned the oils and pastels. It was obvious he didn’t understand them. The chatter stopped and she felt a hundred eyes on them as they made their way through the crowd. His clothes ill-suited the event and he hadn’t known what to say. He’d avoided her glances. It was a mistake, their coming. Especially since several of her ex-lovers were there, some of them boorish in their celebration. Artists and poets, after all, and in Paris-what did he expect?

Elena shook her head. Impossible. She’d show him, she’d show them all. Perhaps next year she’d have a canvas ready to hang if she put her mind to it, and finally she’d have the recognition she deserved. But she must steal away from the crowd. She must prepare-that’s what one of her friends told her-and then she’d be a part of the grand sweep of history, and in Paris where she belonged. Her heart swelled. She shut her eyes, drunk with the heady mix of linseed oil, varnish, and dreams.

“And what’s this?” Etienne threw his hand toward an autumn scene. “Not at all like Bougival. Nothing is drawn properly. Trees don’t look like that-sticks with fur on them? And I’ve never seen that color in the leaves before.”

“But the light, it’s the blast of light at sunset. Don’t you see? Sisley has painted a moment.”

“No, I don’t see,” Etienne said. “No wonder these painters were rejected. Their works are not worthy of the Salon.”

With that, Elena spun around. Her head down, she marched out of the room, Etienne smoothing his stuffed shirt and tripping to keep up with her. At the door she told Berthe Morisot she’d return soon.

In the carriage ride to his home, she listened to the wheels on the cobbles and her mind darted here and there, capturing nothing, coming to rest on their affair. In time perhaps she’d cure Etienne of himself. If they remained lovers, that is. But she’d wanted to be seen with him tonight of all nights, a special night. She had not wanted their affair to be kept a secret any longer. His eyes tonight were ragged-how they revealed the confusion in his soul. She knew she’d remember them long after she’d cooled toward him. Well, she would just have to make it up to him. She knew how to do that.

She was awakened from her reverie by a black-suited servant who opened the door.

Etienne led her into the parlor. “Wait for me here,” he said. “I must change before we go.”

“You’re too cautious.” She kissed him hard, grinding into him. “Where’s your butler? Let’s couple in front of him. Give him something delicious to think about.”

That would melt his reserve. She knew how to handle famous men, and he was one of them, admired, lionized for his learning. He had his own following, the hangers on, the simple creatures. But this was Paris, where such things mattered, and he excited her, so different from the others. She must be brazen.

When he returned she said, “In my belly, a seed of our love. I am two.” She kissed him again. His misgivings seemed to melt. She knew they would. Each time she thought of ending their liaison, the strength of his passion quelled her doubts. Besides, she needed him tonight. No, they must remain together, at least until the child is born. By then, she had no doubt her ardor would cool. It had drifted already. There was too much life to taste, and she could not stop for longer than the spirit lingered. What remained would be a husk, the dregs of life. Few people understood that, but Elena was one of the lucky ones.

Chapter 2: Levi Busacca

Sicily, April 17, 1874

A hard time Serafina had of it, crossing the piazza to answer the commissioner’s call. Too early in the day, not even the statues were awake. God, her toes were frozen. They made walking on the cobbles doubly difficult in boots worn too thin for comfort. She must have them re-soled. Next week when her stipend arrived, if it was on time. And there was that feeling again in her stomach, the growling of some prehistoric animal. Her own fault, she’d dredged up ancient memories best forgotten, and on an empty stomach, too.

The commissioner stood at a row of windows gazing out at something, perhaps the piazza’s early morning stragglers, his hands clasped behind his morning coat. He smiled when she entered. His eyes were a bit rheumy, she felt, perhaps an ague coming on. She pressed a linen to her nose.

His office was a corner monstrosity on the second floor of the municipal building. As she walked toward him, portraits of Oltramari’s previous chiefs of police stared down at her like portly specters. A greasy cobweb dangled from the ceiling, almost touching the clutter on his desk, a rococo affair in flaking gilt.

The seat she usually occupied when she met with him was taken by another man whose bulk spilled over the sides. Clothed in a frock coat, striped pants, and wearing an arm band and silk skullcap, he looked out at her from a face framed in mutton chops and layered in loose flesh. A top hat sat on one knee and the corners of his mouth were downcast. His eyes, grey and bloodshot, pleaded with her from across the room. She knew she’d seen him before, but at the moment, her mind played tricks.

Grunting, he stood as she neared, leaning on his cane, barely managing to hold a chair for her, doubtless hampered by a swollen foot wrapped in heavy linen strips. It smelled of some medicinal or other, camphor perhaps-her son Vicenzu would know. She thanked him and removed her gloves, nodded to the commissioner, and sat.

Plunking himself into the chair, the commissioner folded his hands. “Mr. Levi Busacca tells me you two are acquainted.”

Elena’s father, of course, how could she forget such a face. The man owned half the town and yet his look was always crestfallen. Serafina swallowed as the years melted away and she was young again and pregnant. Oh, yes, and hanging onto the arm of her husband, guests at Elena’s marriage to Otto Loffredo, count of Oltramari.

“It’s been over twenty years, hasn’t it?”

He nodded, bent forward slightly, both hands folded on the top of his cane.

“I’ve seen you through the glass of your store from time to time when we’ve been in Palermo, but haven’t stopped to say hello. Like most women of my class, I don’t have the funds for hats these days. But that doesn’t prevent my browsing the windows to admire them, perched on the head of this countess or that baroness, the colors so rich, the feathers so fine, the designs so remarkable, setting off the most, what should I say, the most unremarkable of aristocratic heads.”

He smiled but it was brief. His mood was guarded, his gaze, predatory even as it searched for something in her face.

Stomach churning again. She forced her mouth to lift, but her heart sank and hid her trembling with a linen. How could Elena be so cruel? Gone off to live in Paris with her wealthy friends these past seven years, caring too much for the frolic and not enough for her husband. She’d abandoned Loffredo, that’s what she’d done, discarded him, bequeathed him-that’s better-she’d bequeathed him to whomever, and now that woman, that hussy, that quean had sent her father to shame her in front of the commissioner. If exposed in this fashion, her own affair with Elena’s husband, a count, the revered medical examiner of Oltramari, the gorgeous Loffredo whom she missed with all her soul, oh, Madonna, she’d be shamed beyond recovery. This was a ruse on the part of Elena, the harlot. The gossip would result in the loss of her stipend. Her children would scatter and starve. She must stop herself. But the damage was done and she wasn’t about to admit to anything, not at all. As far as the world was concerned, she and Loffredo were colleagues thrown together because of business-the huge increase in murder making her sleuthing for the state a necessity-that was it, nothing more, despite rumors raging to the contrary. Well, she couldn’t, wouldn’t give him up. No, not for anything. Never.

Serafina squared her shoulders. For his part, Busacca must have seen a shadow cross her face, for he mopped his brow with a swollen hand.

“Elena is dead.” The poor man began to weep.

After Serafina closed her mouth and waited for her heart to stop its pounding, she blurted her condolences. “A shock. Elena was so full of life… I am truly sorry.” How could this be? She took his hand in hers and tried to comfort him.

In a moment, he dried his eyes. “Late yesterday, I received this telegram from my sister. She runs our business in Paris. The prefecture of police and his representative asked her to identify the body of a woman found yesterday morning in the Rue Cassette. She claims there is no question that Elena is dead. Such an end for one so full of life. So cruel. Never liked the city myself and now…” Fresh tears streamed down the man’s cheeks, his brows furrowed in anguish.

Serafina unfolded the telegram and read it, blinked several times, and read it again. She wondered what Rosa would say, picturing the disbelief on her friend’s face. No, this couldn’t be. A mistake. She shook her head. Elena was so thrilled with herself and her disregard of society’s mores, as free as a soaring bird, scoffing at convention. How could she be dead?

Despite her situation and Elena’s cruelty to Loffredo, Serafina had admired her. The woman enjoyed the fullness of life without a care for what others thought. Doubtless she had the wherewithal. Her family had been prominent Palermitan milliners for centuries. Those plumy hats worn by lords who decided Sicily’s fate after the Vespers were made by Busacca and Sons.

She pursed her lips, still reeling from the news, and asked herself why she had been summoned. “I believe Elena’s husband is in Paris with her. At least that’s what his servant told me when I went to his office last week to consult with him on another matter. Surely he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”

It was a deliberate softening of the truth. Two weeks ago, she and Loffredo parted after a night of wild love making, he to travel to Paris to do his wife’s bidding, attend some ball or other, while she, Serafina, waited, abandoned and cold, counting the days until his return. She stopped. He couldn’t be in danger? She mustn’t show concern for Loffredo’s welfare, not at a time like this. Her toes were ice.

Elena’s father shrugged. “I’ve had no word from Loffredo.”

“He wouldn’t leave Paris without knowing as much as possible about his wife’s death. Surely he’ll ensure her killer is brought to justice.”

Busacca shook his head. “He was never able to control her, never.”

Serafina breathed in slowly but made no reply. She was such a coward. She loved Loffredo, but said nothing to defend him. She stared, mesmerized by Busacca’s face.

He wiped his brow and seemed to consider some inner truth. “I don’t give a fig for Loffredo. Not much of a man, he’ll be of no help. No one seems to be able to locate him, so good riddance. No, I rely on you. That’s why I’m here, to ask you to find my daughter’s killer and bring him to justice. Accept my commission. Go to Paris. Stay for as long as it takes.”

Chapter 3: Loffredo in Chains

Paris, April 17, 1874

Loffredo was handcuffed and taken to the prefecture of police where he presented his papers to the inspector. The man asked him the same questions again and again, each time with a straight back and a polite smile. Where were you between one and three o’clock this morning, my lord? Between midnight and six this morning? And your wife, where is she? When was the last time you saw her? When did you arrive in Paris, was your wife with you? Who was with you? Where did you stay, how long has she been in Paris without you, why did she send for you? Does anyone else know of her request? Where is her letter asking for your presence? Were you on the Rue Cassette this morning, do you know the Rue Cassette, is this your gun?

He sat still and answered each of the inspector’s queries as quickly and as simply as possible. To be sure, the man was a gentleman. He’d introduced himself and apologized for the intrusion. Loffredo asked to see Elena’s body and was told that it was an impossibility. He asked to contact his lawyer and was told, “In due course, my lord.” A photographer took a few photographs of him before they locked him in a room with a bed and water closet. He was served cafe and a roll.

He drank the coffee and squeezed the roll through his fingers. To pass the time, he examined the clump of bread surrounded by small flakes of crust. Wiping the grease from his hand with a napkin, he told himself there’d been a mistake. His feet were numb with cold from the stone floor and he smiled, remembering the last time he and Serafina made love. Afterward he’d tried to warm her toes. The memory, so different from his present predicament, brought a sour taste to his mouth and he began to hear a high-pitched whine in his ears. The sound turned the cement walls of his cell a rancid yellow. He breathed in and out, each time taking deeper breaths holding the air in his lungs for as long as he could. He must remain strong. The ordeal had just begun. In the end he would be proven innocent. He longed to see Serafina, so he talked to her. “No, they’re not, they’re beautiful, I love the tight curls of your hair, you are perfect, you are a goddess.”

In a while he dozed.

He was awakened from sleep and taken to a room and told to stand still. Fifteen minutes later an officer came into the room and charged him with the murder of Elena. He asked again to see her body, asked to contact a lawyer, asked to speak with someone at the Italian embassy. He was told, “In due course, my lord.”

Cuffed and led to a horse-drawn wagon, he sat on a wooden bench next to six other men, swaying to the clop of horse’s hooves. He smelled cheap wine and old sweat. As he listened to the normal sounds of the street, he heard workers calling to one another. The traffic increased.

He breathed fresh air and smelled spring blossoms. They were crossing a bridge and had stopped. He could hear distant shouting, the lapping of the Seine against the sides of a passing barge. For no apparent reason, he pictured the square in front of his window at home. “In my head I am free,” he told himself. “I am here or there, anywhere I want to be,” and he heard the blood pumping in his ears and felt a bubble caught in his throat.

When they arrived, he was led to a small room where he was stripped of his belongings and given prison garb. For the third time he asked to contact his lawyer, but the guard seemed not to understand his French. Again he was photographed, this time by a man with rheumy eyes. Then he was locked in a cell in the middle of one wing off a large circular room. From a small opening in the door he could see across the aisle to a row of cells similar to his. His cell contained a bed, a small writing desk, one gas jet, and a water closet. There was no window, but on one wall close to the ceiling there was a vent forcing in warm air.

He asked for his lawyer. In a few days he asked for books. For two days he drank the tepid coffee they offered but refused the bread. On the third day he ate. The French were excellent detectives. Soon the officer who charged him would find he was innocent. Until then he must remain calm for the sake of Serafina and her family- his new family.

When books were delivered to his cell, he read Victor Hugo and imagined that he was sitting in his library at home. He was free in his mind, he could soar above walls, be anywhere. No one could take that freedom from him. At night he dreamed of Serafina.

Chapter 4: The Commission

Sicily, April 17, 1874

Aware of the commissioner seated calmly at his desk, Serafina faced Busacca, trying to douse the coals that burned inside her. This buffoon with his cretin daughter dared to tarnish Loffredo’s name in front of Oltramari’s police chief. She felt the heat searing her face.

“I plead with you to accept. Investigate my daughter’s murder,” Busacca said. “For the sake of your friendship with her.”

The commissioner cleared his throat. “And I might add, for the sake of our reputation as a nation. We cannot let our dead rot on foreign soil, and French soil at that.”

Busacca continued. “I have my sources of information, three stores in Paris, one on the Rue de la Paix another on the Rue de Verneuil and a third in Mont-Parnasse. An army of men who work for me, all good, sound thinkers. Make use of them. They’ll help you or they’ll have me to deal with. I’m a telegram away, don’t forget. And of course, there’s my sister. Elena died a lonely, brutal death. Shot in the head, her body discarded on a deserted street in Paris. Loffredo’s nowhere to be seen. The French, such a cold people. You must find out what happened.”

“But if you have friends in Paris…”

He held up a hand to stop her. Something about him reminded Serafina of Elena. His manner grated, and yet there was something magical about him, too. He would get his way, of that she had no doubt.

Her temples pounded. “I have a family who needs me here.”

“My dear, you are the best we have,” the commissioner said. He turned away and stared out the window, frowning. “If you are unable to accept, then I… suppose we could send Inspector Colonna, but I doubt we’d discover much of the truth.” He adjusted his sash.

That idiot, Colonna! A horrid thought, simple-minded and venal in one fat package. She clamped her jaw and thought a moment.

“But surely Paris is filled with investigators. The French have the cleverest detectives on the continent. Someone within La Surete Nationale will be assigned the case and find Elena’s killer.”

Busacca shrugged. “Perhaps, but I don’t trust the French. Bad enough doing business with them. And we speak of my only child. True, she was a free spirit. Never knew what Elena was going to do next. Never did. I thought she’d grow out of her wayward habits. But of late

…” He blew his nose. “Nonetheless, she’s a dead Sicilian, and you know the French regard for us. I want her killer hung, no mercy. I want swift justice. I want an eye for an eye. In addition, you must help my sister arrange for burial, she knows nothing of the Christian rubrics. Before Elena could marry Loffredo, the old count made her convert. Elena, good at going through the motions, consented.”

Serafina shuddered at the power of his words. “So she was murdered?”

“Of course she was murdered. Who could suggest otherwise? A single shot to the head. What else could it have been?”

Serafina said nothing.

“What else could it have been, I dare you to say it!” Busacca’s face grew purple. “What they tell me of your audacity is true. But know this.” He moved closer to her and shook a fist in her face, as if God Himself condemned her thoughts. “My daughter would never, ever take her own life! Never, ever-do you hear me?”

Serafina felt the blood rush to her face. She squared her shoulders. “I keep an open mind. Take it or leave it.”

There was silence. It seemed to swell, filling the room and seeping out through invisible cracks in the walls and into the piazza below.

The old man continued. “If we do not send our own, I fear they’ll assign some poor untried bugger to the case. When the telegram from my sister arrived, I asked my friend, Notabartolo, the mayor of Palermo for help. Without hesitation, he suggested you. He said you were the best, our only hope.”

She stared at him but couldn’t argue with his words.

Busacca shifted in his chair and mopped his brow. “Because of the delicate nature of your relationship with my daughter’s husband…” He paused and his eyes met hers.

Serafina’s face burned, but she held his gaze. “Please be frank. I’m not sure I know what you mean, and this is no time for pretense.”

The commissioner looked down at his hands.

“Because of your… affair with Loffredo, I hesitated to ask, but my wife and I talked it over, and in the end, we chose you because of your reputation. You will help me, I’m sure, for the money, if not for the sake of my daughter.” His gaze was unblinking as he handed her an envelope.

She slit it open, read the letter, and stared at the amount of the retainer, steeling herself to show nothing while she waited for the blood pummeling her ears to stop. She tried to catch her breath and said a silent prayer of thanks to the Madonna who knew that her family needed these coins, might even have arranged it. For the past four years, Serafina had been their sole means of support. Ever since Giorgio’s death, their wealth seemed to shrink and now their apothecary shop was indebted to the bank in ways she did not fathom. Nearly spent, her son labored long hours at the shop and for no reward. Vicenzu was in despair most of the time. One morning his ebullience cheered her breakfast, but when he’d returned for the noon meal, he paced the room, fists stuffed into frayed pockets. They’d had to cut her youngest daughter’s piano lessons to three days a week, ate meat only on feast days, burned fires only on the coldest days in winter. She shivered. And they weren’t the only ones. All of Oltramari grew rustier, dustier as customers disappeared and the town clutched at the tail end of prosperity.

But the thought of travel to Paris and at this time of the year, of leaving her youngest children in the hands of the domestic until she solved the mystery of Elena’s death caused knots to form in her stomach. She felt acid dripping in her throat.

Of course she could find the answers. She was the best, the only one for the job. She breathed in, out. Perhaps she’d take Carmela with her-and Rosa, for sure, she’d need her. Thank goodness Giulia was already in Paris designing dresses at the house of that haughty contessa; she’d be such a help with her wardrobe. For the last few years Serafina looked worn and out of date. Best of all, she would rendezvous with Loffredo. Busacca must be mistaken. She had no doubt Loffredo was still in Paris, a visit undertaken at the bidding of his now dead wife. Poor, lost Loffredo. He must be devastated, certainly bewildered, his feelings a jumble, as were hers for him at this moment.

She hadn’t been to Paris in over twenty years, and then, only for school, a forced trip, her mother’s idea, a banishing after an unfortunate slip, a foolish affair which put her certificate in jeopardy. Worried, her parents had delivered her to La Maternite where she’d spent six months observing Parisian midwifery, developed a passable grasp of the French language, doing little else for six months other than studying and freezing in a garret overlooking the school’s courtyard. And that first visit had ended so tragically. Her anger at Busacca was replaced by a sudden memory, long forgotten, of a horrid night in Paris. They wouldn’t have listened to her anyway, she was a child, what could she have done? Serafina’s stomach churned. She must stop her mind from ranging over the years like this and focus on Elena’s tragedy.

“Mr. Busacca is waiting for your reply,” the commissioner said.

“Of course, I accept. For the sake of your daughter’s memory and our family’s friendship which courses the generations.”

“You’ll leave tonight.”

Serafina’s jaw dropped. “But I couldn’t possibly leave tonight, not on such short notice. I must see to my children’s needs before I go. And I must secure tickets and pack. Surely you understand! I’ll need to bring six others with me-to assist in my investigation.” She waited for him to flinch. When he did not, she continued. “After all, you expect my investigation to be thorough and swift. Paris is vast and Elena had many contacts.”

He shook his head. “You must depart this evening, I insist. I’ve had a devil of a time securing your passage. As we speak a steamer returns to Marseille from South America. As a special favor granted to me by one of the owners, the ship will make a special stop in Palermo to pick you up. It leaves at eight tonight.” He consulted his watch. “That gives you twelve hours to make arrangements. I understand your reluctance to leave on such short notice, but you understand, it’s the best I can do, the only boat to Marseille for a week.”

The commissioner shrugged.

Serafina said nothing.

Busacca handed her a large envelope. “Your tickets. First class accommodation on the Niger bound for Marseille. With the best of weather, the trip will take two days. In Marseille, my agent will meet you. He’ll ensure your safety for the remainder of your trip on the train and see to your needs while you’re in Paris. Once you arrive, you’ll be staying at the Hotel du Louvre. I’ve booked a wing on the eighth floor for your party. Will you need a translator?”

Serafina rubbed her forehead. “I’ve been to Paris. The language ought to return, and I have a daughter there who designs for the House of Grinaldi.”

“I know La Grinaldi and her house,” Busacca said, scowling. “A newcomer, but popular. Success has come too easily to her. We’ll see how long it lasts.”

Serafina was silent.

He continued. “The retainer should cover your expenses for at least a month. My card is enclosed with an invitation to be fitted at my store on the Rue de la Paix for suitable hats. We have the best designers in the city. You will pardon my effrontery, I notice you seldom wear one, but you’ll need a head covering in Paris, not only to ward off the chill of their spring, but for respectability. Contact my sister for whatever other attire or monies you need. Her address is in the letter.”

Serafina’s cheeks burned at his condescension. She couldn’t bring herself to thank him. She never wore hats. Didn’t need them; didn’t suit her, a luxury she couldn’t afford. She doubted she’d do as he suggested. “Does your sister know of my arrival?”

“Of course. She looks forward to it. She’s not fond of my daughter. She told me Elena was keeping wild company-in with a new breed of painters rejected by the Salon and creating their own exhibit. Sophie was not surprised at the news of her death. My sister’s a sour old thing now, but you might like her. Flits from one of our stores to the other doing little work but attracting customers. Considered to be quite a character and well-liked in her circle. She keeps up with society. Invited to most of the salons, Mallarme’s, for one. You’ve heard of him, no doubt?”

“Who hasn’t?” she asked, pretending to know what he was talking about.

“Sophie lives in the fourth arrondissement. Owns a decrepit-looking building and fits in quite well in that quarter. But don’t judge her from the facade of her building or her demeanor, she can open doors for you. She’s lived in Paris most of her adult life. Had an arranged marriage with a French Jew, thanks to my father who was anxious to plant a branch of the family in Paris. She knows everyone. Keep on her good side, and she’ll assist you with whatever you may need. And I expect that aristocratic husband of Elena will resurface and be only too willing to lend you a hand.”

Chapter 5: Preparations

The maid led Serafina into Rosa’s office and took her cape. Not yet dressed for the day, the madam sat at her desk in a black lace affair counting coins. Serafina kissed her friend on both cheeks and went over to the hearth to warm her feet. She held her hands to the fire.

“It’s April. Why are you so cold?”

“Why do you have a fire in the grate?” She shivered. “Don’t bother answering. More important matters, two men followed me here from the commissioner’s office. They’re lurking outside as we speak, probably relieving themselves in your shrubbery.”

“Your imagination runs on and on. But as to the fire, it’s for show and to brighten the room in the early morning.”

Serafina said nothing.

“It’s just after first light. Why are you up so early? More to the point, you look like you’ve been playing with the slop boy while Loffredo’s away.”

Serafina closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

“What’s happened and please make it interesting. Tessa gives me no trouble, getting straight A’s and regaling the teachers with her paintings; she sticks her head in a book at night, paints on the weekends. I’m so bored. Look at me, up at dawn with nothing to do but count money. So wearying. Tell me there’s trouble, other than men following you in our own piazza. How dull. Tell me we’re going to the Far East, some place exotic, Moscow or Peking, one of those. Tell me twelve sultans armed to the teeth stalk us behind a market tent, have their minions boiling oil to roast us. Give me excitement. I need a change.”

“How does Paris sound? Don’t answer, I don’t have time to listen. We leave tonight.” She filled Rosa in on her meeting with the commissioner and Busacca, and the reason for their trip. “I need your help. Will you come with me?”

“Do you need to ask?” Rosa rang the bell and gazed into space for a moment before shaking herself. “Elena’s dead, I can’t believe it. What time do we leave? Tonight you say?”

“At eight. We take the Niger bound for Marseille.”

“Plenty of time and don’t bore me with particulars, but we’d better have first class rooms.”

“The ship’s making a special trip to Palermo just to pick us up.”

Rosa’s smile broadened.

Despite the madam’s earlier objections to hearing details, Serafina explained their travel arrangements at length, dwelling on the luxury of the accommodations.

“This is getting good,” Rosa said. “I knew Henri would take care of us.”

“Cryptic as usual.”

“Henri Dupuy de Lome. He’s an engineer of some sort, a principal with Messageries Maritimes. A navy man. Tall, dashing, or he was at one time. Haven’t seen him in years. No doubt by now he’s bloated himself. Men usually do. I’ll have the maids do all the packing. Not just the two of us, I hope. We’ll need a fleet of helpers.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but Rosa cut her off. Her friend’s excitement was infectious and for the first time, Serafina looked forward to the trip.

“And old man Busacca gave you a retainer, I’m sure. Let’s see it.”

Serafina handed her the envelope. Rosa took her time with the note, going over to the window to look at it in the light, turning it over several times, smelling the paper as if she could tell a counterfeit cheque by its odor, gazing at the numbers until her eyes widened.

“Someone’s finally paying you what you’re worth. We’d better be staying on the Rue de Rivoli. Haven’t been to Paris in ages, but they say it’s grand now the baron’s had his way with the place. Dug up all the slums, widened the streets, strewn gas lights all around so the city’s lit up like Nero’s Rome.”

“We’ve got seven rooms on the top floor of the Hotel du Louvre on the Place du Palais Royal, and we’re to stay for as long as it takes to find Elena’s killer.”

“That means we can take Tessa. We’ll have to let her teachers know, but she’s so keen on drawing and painting. She’s getting oils all over her smocks, dripping it onto my carpets, no interest in fashion. Paris will be good for her. Perhaps your daughter will give her a lesson, show her frocks. And she can observe in one of those ateliers. Gesuzza can stay with her and chaperone. It’s Paris we’re going to, after all.”

“This isn’t an outing. Elena’s been murdered.”

The door opened and a domestic entered.

“We need coffee and sweets. And tell Arcangelo I want to see him.”

After the maid left, Rosa shook her head. “I’m running away with myself, forgive me. Why did Elena, with all her money and connections, have to die? And why did she do it so suddenly?”

“It’s a shock.” Serafina told her friend what little she knew. “‘One bullet to the head, her body discarded on a deserted street in Paris,’ Busacca’s words. She was discovered early yesterday morning. Busacca’s sister identified her.” Serafina stared into the flames. “I can’t quite believe she’s gone. Such a free spirit, a lesson for us all. Although…”

“Although what?” Serafina asked.

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“You would.”

Rosa’s eyes narrowed and her cheeks took on that conspiratorial look of hers. “I’ve heard she’s scaling the depths and heights of wildness.”

“She always was wild,” Serafina said.

“Not like this.”

“Out with it. What have you heard?”

“Seen scampering in the seedier parts of Paris. Bedding every ne’er do well in town.”

Serafina said nothing but stared out the madam’s windows overlooking the public gardens. “You’re not surprised at her murder?”

Rosa shook her head and was onto another subject. “We’ll be in a foreign land. I for one haven’t been to Paris in ages, barely know two or three words in French, although the last time I was there I had little trouble making myself understood. Parisian men seem to like me.”

Serafina rolled her eyes.

“But you’ll find the horror who killed Elena, I know you will,” Rosa said. “And I’ll do whatever I can to help. Where shall we start?”

“There’s Busacca’s sister,” Serafina said. “And the prefect of police. I’ll need his help, I’m sure. And anyway, I’m anxious to meet him. Interesting man, I saw his picture in the Giornale di Sicilia a few months ago, some story about the usual government snafu. He tendered his resignation, it seems, and they begged him to stay on. You know the French, all that to-ing and fro-ing they do.”

Rosa looked pensive. “I’d forgotten about Busacca’s sister. Haughty creature. I knew her once. That was long ago and she’d have nothing to do with me. Runs the business in Paris, I hear tell. Tall and ugly, but has a certain esteem. Of course she disregards everyone but herself. Takes after her father.”

“She sounds like Elena.” For a moment, Serafina tried to picture Elena. It had been so long. She became lost in the tangle of her thoughts and caught herself staring into the flames. Her reverie was broken by Rosa’s chuckle.

“What?”

“Forgetting something? Elena’s death should lighten your step.”

Serafina shook her head. “I wondered when you’d get to that, but you’re mistaken. Loffredo hasn’t written once and Busacca, as you can imagine, had no kind words to say about him. No, Elena’s death gives me little cause for joy. There’s something sinister in all of this. I wouldn’t put it past Elena for arranging her own demise to spite us.”

“Don’t be silly,” Rosa said. “Busacca’s no fool. After all, he’s used to Elena’s misdeeds. He must know when she’s inventing fantasy. He wouldn’t part with ten thousand lire to retain your services unless he was sure she’s dead.”

“But I feel a tremble in my bones, an ancient monster swishing its tail. Something’s not right with Loffredo.”

“You’re being far too dramatic, as usual.”

Serafina gazed across the room and was silent for a moment. “You’re right. I need to focus on investigating Elena’s death.” Besides, she thought, but did not say it, she was a bit put out with Loffredo. Whenever Elena wrote to him, he dropped everything to be by her side. What was that about? And she hadn’t heard from him in close to two weeks. Perhaps she should be worried. She felt again that slow burn in her stomach. He couldn’t be… they couldn’t have… No, impossible, the French would never imprison a member of the nobility. Well, except during their Revolution, but that was long ago. And that other slip, what did they call it? The Commune.

“Have you made arrangements for Giulia to meet us?”

“Not yet, but I will. I’ll have her meet us at the hotel with as much of a new wardrobe for Carmela as she can muster in such a short time.”

“Will her employer part with all that fabric without charging her for the gowns?”

Serafina nodded. “La Grinaldi is in my debt for letting Giulia go to Paris and work for her in the first place. But right now I’m more concerned with finding Elena’s killer and being done with it. We have our work cut out for us. Elena has friends, lots of them. Painters and poets and the like. Any of them could have killed her.”

“The motive?” Rosa asked.

“Don’t be so pedantic.” But Serafina paused to consider Rosa’s question. “I’ve no idea, not yet. Anything could have happened. You know what a horror Elena can be at times. She may have angered someone, or perhaps a poor painter is in her debt. I know nothing of her life in Paris, only what she’s chosen to tell Loffredo, and that’s very little.”

There was a knock on the door and Arcangelo entered.

Rosa perked up. “You have ten hours to finish your chores for the day and ready yourself for a long journey. We leave tonight on a pack boat bound for Paris. But before you do, find out who’s been following Donna Fina and take care of them for her.”

Serafina described them, a tall man wearing a dark cloak, and a shorter companion in black leather jerkin and cap. “Hired by the inspector, no doubt.”

Rosa’s stable boy bowed. As he turned to leave, the madam pointed to a bulge in his back pocket. “And for heaven’s sake, do a better job of hiding that sling shot.”

When Serafina got home, she found her children gathered around the table waiting for breakfast, so she told them briefly about Elena’s death and her commission from Mr. Busacca to find her killer.

Toto seemed more interested in shining his knucklebones. Vicenzu rushed out to deposit her retainer, promising to return with enough bank notes to cover her expenses while in Paris.

“And you can always wire for more,” he said, kissing the note and running out the door.

Serafina called after him. “Don’t forget to contact Giulia. Tell her we’ll be in Paris in what, today’s Friday, and the trip takes seventy-six hours-tell her she should meet us in the lobby of the Hotel du Louvre on… Monday or Tuesday evening. Tell her I’ll wire her when we get to Marseille with a more precise arrival time.” Her stomach began to churn. She wasn’t used to moving so quickly and envied the madam her quick embrace of change.

Carmela almost spilled her caffe. “My hair’s a mess, my figure slovenly, and I’ve nothing to wear, nothing! I can’t possibly go. Toto get those knucklebones off this table.”

“Not to worry, my sweet. Wire Giulia your measurements. She’ll fix up something for you. And don’t forget the grand department stores. You’ve never seen anything like them. Ready to wear dresses that are sumptuous. We’ll buy a whole new wardrobe for you, in addition to what Giulia conjures up for us.”

Carlo rolled his eyes.

Their buoyant spirits added to the house’s usual pandemonium. Everyone was talking, arms flying, children ranging about the kitchen table, Carmela in a state examining herself in the glass, Carlo stealing bread from her plate. They were excited. No, relieved, that was it. The commission meant they could live comfortably for several years if they were careful.

Renata, Serafina’s older daughter and family chef, busied herself at the stove rolling eggs into omelets and shoveling biancomangiare topped with orange sauce into bowls while the domestic shuffled back and forth carrying food and steaming cups of latte to the table. Maria clomped in from the parlor, a score in one hand, pushing up her spectacles with the other, and asking for peace, please, while she practiced.

Thank the Madonna, Carlo was home for another few weeks after the Easter holidays and he could help manage Maria and Toto. Serafina wondered what had happened to Gloria; he never spoke of her, and truth to tell, he seemed more interested in reading the paper and visiting his friends who were also in town. Come to think of it, she never saw him study. But she didn’t have time to worry about him now.

After the breakfast was served, Renata was out the door and on her way to La Vucciria. She wanted to prepare a feast for Serafina and Carmela before their departure, saying she didn’t know when they’d have another proper meal.

“But we go to Paris, the home of cuisine,” Carmela said.

“Who told you that?” Carlo asked, forking in a mouthful of omelet. “What they know of food and love, they learned from us. But it’s the center of style and color and medicine.” He shoveled some biancomangiare into his mouth. “Are you sure you won’t need more help? Arcangelo and Teo are youngsters, and what does Carmela know of stealthy pursuit?”

“Much more than you. I couldn’t have caught the Ambrosi murderer without her.” Serafina sipped her latte. “Besides, I don’t know how long we’ll be gone and you’ve got school. It was your father’s dying wish that you practice medicine. Don’t you dare disappoint him.”

“Shouldn’t you take me, too?” Maria asked. “The Hotel du Louvre has a pianoforte in the lobby played by Mozart.”

“Does not.” Teo, the orphan who lived with Serafina, came into the room followed by the nurse carrying the two youngest members of the household, Teo’s brother and Carmela’s child. “Mozart played the harpsichord, and the instrument that he played as a child is in the Palace of Versailles.”

Maria looked like she’d been slapped. “Who asked you?” She pushed back her chair, crossing her arms. “You know nothing about anything, you’re not even a part of our family, you’re a silly orphan, now go away.” She turned to Serafina. “And why does he get to go to Paris and not me?”

“First, Teo and his brother are part of our family.” Serafina looked toward Carmela. “Second, this is not a holiday outing. He and Arcangelo have work to do in this investigation, and I suggest they’d better get started. We need to find out who’s been following me. And third, if you cannot be gracious to Teo, go to your room.”

As soon as she said the words, she’d regretted them. She’d lost control, something she vowed never to do again. Worse, she’d lost focus. Serafina rubbed her temples. “The success of this investigation depends on all of us, especially on me and my mind. A terrible murder has been committed, a deed against humanity. It’s up to me to find out who killed Elena. If I fail, I’ll never work again, and that will have dire consequences for all of us.”

There was a hush in the room, except for the tick of the clock’s pendulum.

“Who was this Elena, anyway?” Arcangelo asked, coming into the room, followed by Tessa and Rosa.

“Yes, do tell us,” Carlo said, fetching more chairs for the newcomers.

“Enough, all of you.” Serafina shot Rosa a look, defying her to say one word. “Elena was Dr. Loffredo’s wife, the countess of Oltramari. Her body was found yesterday morning on a street in Paris. Her father, Levi Busacca, has asked me to find her killer.” As Serafina answered Arcangelo’s question, Maria, her breakfast uneaten, left the room. Tessa smiled at Teo who scowled back at her and lowered his head into a book.

Chapter 6: The Journey to Paris

The ship’s crew was efficient and friendly and as a special treat, Arcangelo, Teo, and Tessa were given a tour of the engine room. There were games on the main deck and plenty of room to stroll. Even Rosa was impressed with the food. They ate their meals in the formal dining room with several other travelers, and met a Parisian couple who offered to take Tessa to the Ecole des Beaux Arts since their son was a student there, attached to the atelier of Gerome.

“Not my taste, Mama,” Tessa told Rosa after the couple had left. “I want to see the new school of painters.”

“We’ll see plenty of those,” Serafina said. “Many of Elena’s friends are painters, the unconventional kind, rejected by the Salon. They’re planning a show this month, I know as much from the last time I saw Loffredo. That’s why Elena wanted him in Paris, my star-crossed lover.”

Tessa’s eyes widened.

Rosa put down her fork. “Just you wait, my girl, I took you to Paris for a reason. You and Gesuzza will have a time going to the shows and the grand department stores, mark me.”

Representatives of Messageries Maritimes met Serafina’s party in Marseille and drove them to the Gare St. Charles where they’d catch the train Busacca called “the PLM,” the “ Companie des chemin de fer de Paris a Lyon et a la Mediterranee.” The station was built on a plateau overlooking the harbor and lower city. It reminded Serafina of a stony general surveying his troops, but it was not without its charm, and in spite of a small incident, the hour layover proved to be a respite. The journey through choppy waters had been tiring and they still had a long train ride ahead. Before they departed, they’d have time to stroll the plaza fronting the building. It would be the last real exercise until they arrived in Paris that evening, so they ambled around the circumference, feeling the warmth of the sun, marveling at the view, and munching on figs, warm croissants, and sardines sold by a street vendor.

Carmela, who’d taken charge of Arcangelo and Teo with the intent of forming a skilled surveillance team, tapped Serafina on the shoulder. “Don’t turn around, but someone’s following us, I’m sure of it. No need to tell Rosa.”

“No need to tell Rosa what,” the madam demanded. “If you refer to those two louts following us, I’ve been watching them ever since they hailed a hansom at the harbor. They’ve been trailing us at a safe distance. And this is the first you’ve noticed them? Arcangelo failed to find the men who were following Fina in Oltramari; the three of you will have to do better in Paris.”

Arms folded, one foot tapping the dusty ground, Carmela opened her mouth to speak, but looked down and kept her mouth shut for a moment before she managed to say, “You’re right, of course.”

Serafina frowned. Rosa had a point, but what had she expected? Her assistants consisted of her children and a stableboy, not exactly experts in the art of detection. And there hadn’t been enough time to teach them more than what they knew naturally of stealth.

“We’ll do better, I promise,” Carmela said.

Serafina smiled at her daughter. “Are there two men, average in height, the taller of the two wearing a dark cloak, and the other, a leather jerkin and cap?”

Carmela nodded.

“The same two who followed you in Oltramari?” Rosa asked.

Serafina shrugged. “As you pointed out, Teo and Arcangelo didn’t have luck finding them.” She swallowed and tried to keep her voice from trembling. She considered for a moment, her head pounding. Who would want her followed? “Let’s slow down,” she said, “and think this through. We’ve been rushing ever since Friday morning.”

“In Oltramari, the shadows could have been anywhere in town, but we didn’t have time for a proper search,” Carmela said. “On the ship we spent every waking moment trying to find them. Unless they were squirreled in by the crew, they weren’t onboard, I’m sure of it. We scoured every hold.”

“Then how did they get here?” Rosa asked.

“There could be two different sets of men, two different people paying them,” Carmela said.

Serafina looked at the sky and told herself to remain calm. “We need to confront them. You know what to do.”

Carmela nodded and snapped her fingers. In seconds Arcangelo and Teo appeared. “How much time do we have?”

Serafina looked at her watch. “Twenty-five minutes, and I’ll want to talk with the men, at the very least, listen to their speech and find out what sort of thugs we’re dealing with.”

“Can I go, too?” Tessa asked. “All I’m doing is sitting around with you two.”

The madam’s first response was to refuse and there was a row, stomping feet and raised voices. Onlookers became interested. But when Carmela said that Tessa could help with a diversionary tactic she’d been thinking of using, Rosa relented.

Rosa and Serafina found a bench near the entrance and sat enjoying the warmth of the morning sun. If Paris was as delightful as Marseille, their stay would have its rewards. A young girl selling carnations came over to them and Rosa bought two, gave one to Serafina and pinned the other on herself. A breeze from the harbor brought the sharp scent of fish.

Serafina shielded her eyes with her hand and looked into the center of the square where the two shadows leaned against a statue as if in conversation, their attention momentarily arrested by Carmela and Tessa who just happened to be strolling past the men.

All at once the cap flew off one of the men and there was a cloud of dust. Instantly, he bent over, clutching his ear. His companion ran to him, looking over his shoulder at Serafina and Rosa as they approached.

“I saw you both in Oltramari yesterday. Your cover is infantile. What do you think you’re doing?” Serafina asked.

“We’re here for your protection,” one of the men said in a thick accent as his companion wiped the blood from his ear.

“I don’t believe you. Who’s paying you?”

“Can’t tell you who he is, the boss’ll have my hide if you find out. Been in danger many times and you’ve pulled through, thanks to us, so you ought to be grateful.”

“Nonsense, we owe you nothing,” Rosa said. “But I recognize your friend with the ear. I’ve seen him in the piazza talking to old soldiers.” The journey through choppy waters had been tiring and they still had a long train ride ahead.

They stared at Serafina but made no move to leave.

“You can go home and tell your boss that we don’t need your protection. Leave now or I’ll call the police.”

They watched them disappear. So they were Palermitans, their clothes too good to be friends of Don Tigro who had peasants from Oltramari working for him.

“Are they Inspector Colonna’s men?” Rosa asked.

Serafina shook her head. “He has nothing to gain.”

“Perhaps a bribe when you return? I can hear him now. ‘If it weren’t for my men protecting you, you’d have failed.’ Never forget how crooked the fat inspector can be,” Rosa said. “And there’s something comic about those two.”

“They’re unprofessional, that’s for sure, but I fail to see the humor. And they’re deflecting us from our task, so they do cause harm.” Serafina said nothing more, but thought they might be hired by Busacca who was having her shadowed, not so much for protection-he would have mentioned them-but for information. But why would he do that? She’d promised to send him a report of her progress at the end of each week. She considered some more and concluded Busacca did not trust her. He was a businessman protecting his interests. She couldn’t blame him. After all, she and Loffredo were lovers and he knew it. He’d hired her on the strength of her reputation for finding killers. She relaxed.

In a few minutes, Carmela and her group appeared.

Rosa hugged Tessa and told her how good she was. “A little actress.”

Serafina said nothing more about the men. They were harmless enough now, perhaps comical as Rosa suggested, but she feared they might cause harm in the future.

Serafina watched the landscape speed by from their first-class compartment, the view blurred by steam and the strong rays of the setting sun. Unlike the Italian landscape which was craggy one moment and breathtakingly beautiful the next, the French countryside seemed all of a piece as the train sped through fields of grain and apple orchards with mountains in the distance. The land was peaceful, the contours undulating, and yet there was something mysterious about it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was if they rode across a great stage where nothing was real. Yes, that was it, the French panorama seemed too good to be true, created by a designer who understood that style, if displayed to perfection, could be alive and arresting, could be an expression of a nation’s soul.

They were rolling at top speed but it seemed as though nothing moved. The train arced and dipped slightly through planted fields, the acreage vast, the sun a glowing ball sinking toward the horizon. Peasants bent to their work and a farmer tilled his land with a plow pulled by four horses while above them, large winged creatures soared and dipped, their underbellies catching the last rays of the day.

The clack of the wheels, the sway of the car lulled her into a mindless state. She tried to picture the dead Elena and the streets of Paris as she, remembered them, all the while ordering in her mind the steps she must take to find the killer. She looked at her watch pin. They were to arrive at the Gare de Lyon in a few hours. She was sick of the train’s lurching movement, but at least it was the last leg of the trip. She watched Rosa seated opposite her swaying on plush seats and rubbed her eyes, trying to calculate the distance they’d traveled in less than three days, close to fifteen hundred kilometers, most of it by steamer.

Glancing down the aisle, she saw Arcangelo, his hands and face pressed to the window. It was his first trip abroad. Teo sat beside him reading one of his books. How could he manage carrying that heavy knapsack on his back, she wondered, filled with his clothes, his precious knucklebones carved by his father, and several books. She buried her face in her cape, smelling the sea mixed in with the ghastly fumes of the train.

“Stop fretting. You’ll find out about him soon enough,” Rosa muttered. But by the look on her face, Serafina could tell that her friend hid her fear. Something was wrong, Serafina was sure of it. Why hadn’t Loffredo sent her news of Elena’s death? Why wasn’t he the one asking for someone to investigate his wife’s death? On his other trips, he’d written every day, but this time she hadn’t received one letter.

Toward the end of the ride, the conductor escorted them to the diner. Unlike their railway at home, there were tables covered in starched linen, the napkins fanned out at each place.

Two waiters in white tie served them while bus boys, their hair slicked and wearing long aprons, ran back and forth with bottles of mineral water. A separate wine was served with each course. Their group was seated at three tables and the meal was a four course affair. They began with escargots, followed by their choice of beef with fresh herbs or duckling with crispy potatoes and asparagus with truffles. The food was served in china so fine that the candlelight shone through. For dessert they were served a selection of cheeses, brandy and cafe for the adults and to the delight of Tessa, Arcangelo, and Teo, creme glacee. Serafina had to admit the meal was an event, the food exquisite, and she’d been hungry.

But with the last bite, her attention was arrested by fleeting light and shade moving at the end of the car. Staring, she saw the disappearing flap of a leather jerkin. The men who followed them were beginning to take up more and more room in her mind, the inscrutable Busacca swimming alongside the disappearance of Loffredo and the finality of Elena’s death.

Chapter 7: Arrival

As they pulled into the Gare de Lyon, the train belched steam and the iron wheels screeched to a halt. Serafina rose and Rosa stretched. They descended, making their way on unsteady legs down the length of the platform. Serafina felt the damp evening chill and walked with increasing speed out of the station and into the Paris dark, the end of a long journey. The beginning of another.

She gazed up, trying to see the stars, but the night was cloudy and the air misted. Haloes surrounded rows of gas lamps and Parisians swept past, speaking in that guttural way of the French. Serafina peered across the boulevard to the notorious shape of the Prison Mazas and felt a stony creature breathing fire deep within her. Buttoning the collar of her cape, she glanced back at Teo and Arcangelo who walked behind her, talking and pointing at everything they saw. She looked over at Rosa embracing Tessa and gesturing toward the huge square buildings surrounding them while carriages whirred by in the wide tree-lined streets.

Carmela caught up with them, towing a stevedore and his cart. She took Serafina’s arm and marched her to the curb where three of Busacca’s agents greeted them in passable Sicilian. After suitable small talk, she asked the men to arrange a conference for her with the prefect of police and with Madame de Masson, Busacca’s sister, as soon as possible. “I want to begin my investigation tonight.”

“An impossibility,” they said, laughing and saying, “No, no, Madame,” and stomping their feet on the cobbles. They said Madame de Masson expected her at ten tomorrow morning and they’d scheduled a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the prefect. A carriage would be waiting for her at half past nine in front of her hotel.

“Nothing for it but to enjoy Paris tonight. I for one am famished,” Rosa said.

In a few minutes, the hotel’s omnibus arrived. While a porter stowed their luggage, a liveried footman helped them up the few steps into the vehicle. Serafina took one last look around the station. A figure, dark and foreboding, hid in an alcove across the square. As she stared at him, the cloaked man receded into the shadows.

Arcangelo and Teo wanted to ride on top so they all climbed the stairs and sat holding onto the rails in the open air, Serafina hugging her cape and rubbing her arms for warmth. She felt the resistance of the wheels as the horses strained and they began to move.

Plunking down next to Carmela, she gave her a peck on the cheek and an encouraging hug. Poor Carmela, an unwed mother, by necessity she’d stayed at home most of the time with her baby, helping at home with the younger children, forgotten by the world. Carmela’s brow was furrowed. Serafina looked down at the people in the streets, the Frenchwomen with such flare they exuded an unmatched style and sophistication. She felt rather than saw them staring back at her. Fingering the thin fabric of her dress worn through in spots at the hem, she pulled at a loose thread and tried to smooth the pucker.

As the horses clopped onto the Rue de Rivoli, the crowds thickened and their glamor increased, taunting her. She tried to see herself through the eyes of the wealthy Parisians and other travelers who flocked to the city. They seemed to mock her with their finery. Why did she think she’d have the skill to operate here? She felt each breath of air like a fist in her stomach. Her imagination fed her fears, no doubt a trick, but in her mind, Paris was filled with disquiet, the straight boulevards and laughing crowds an elaborate charade hiding a medieval terror lurking beneath the paved avenues where the real city waited like a wild beast ready to pounce. After all, she’d been a student of midwifery in the old Paris, long before Haussmann bulldozed the medieval neighborhoods. She remembered the dirty warrens, the narrow alleys that bred bitter poverty and disease and far too much death. And as in all cities in Europe, she knew there were scores of the desperate ready to kill for a sous. She doubted they’d been totally eradicated; memory and minds and class structure would have to change first. She shivered. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that one or two hapless souls waited for her somewhere in this city ready to surprise her one day, hired by a formidable power as yet unknown. Well, she’d just have to disappoint them.

“I want to see the Bastille you told me about,” Arcangelo said.

“Torn down,” Teo said. “We passed the spot where it stood, not far from the station. Hundreds of thousands were imprisoned there. Thousands died by hanging or starvation or the guillotine.”

Arcangelo’s eyes widened.

“Too much Dickens,” Serafina said, and tried to swallow her own fears.

The omnibus turned into the Rue de Rivoli, passing buildings grander in scale than those surrounding the station and lit by rows of gas lamps. The wide sidewalks were filled with groups in evening attire walking arm in arm, the women elegantly coiffed, the men in top hats.

“What’s that?” Tessa asked, pointing to a large building on their left.

“The Louvre. It used to be a palace,” Rosa said. “Filled with art, but not your taste, I’m afraid, my girl.”

“But I want to see it at least once.”

“Me, too,” Teo said.

“You boys and Carmela will have your days filled with work,” Serafina said. “Which reminds me…” She tapped her daughter’s shoulder. “Tomorrow while Rosa and I are visiting Madame de Masson, I’d like the four of you to go to a studio on the Boulevard des Capucines. There’s an exhibit I want you to see, and the paintings will be more to Tessa’s liking.” The omnibus turned and they held onto the railing.

Tessa smiled.

“I read about it too,” Carmela said, taking out her map, silent while she studied it. “No need to take public transport. It’s close to our hotel, right in back of us.” She traced the route with her finger. “And why do we visit this exhibit, not just to look at paintings, I hope.”

Arcangelo made a face, straining to hear Serafina’s reply.

Serafina paused a moment, taking in the scenery, then continued. “I’m hoping you’ll find some of Elena’s friends. If no one’s there when you arrive, return later. I want you to find out as much as you can about Elena’s life in Paris, the names and location of her friends, their regard for her, how they took her death, the shops she frequented, the names of her lovers, their addresses. I need to know everything about her.”

“Won’t her aunt provide us with that?” Rosa asked.

“Perhaps, but better to hear information from several different sources.” Serafina continued. “You and Tessa will be interested in the paintings. But Arcangelo and Teo won’t even go inside.”

Arcangelo looked at Teo and smiled.

“I want them to look for our shadowy friends. We still need to determine who’s following us and why.”

“We’ve been through this. I thought you figured they were Busacca’s men,” Rosa said.

“But I’ve got to make sure.”

Teo turned his moon face to Serafina. Some of the chocolate dessert he’d eaten on the train had smeared onto his shirt. She wondered what people in the hotel lobby would think of their group.

They turned into a large square, Serafina swaying with the motion.

“That’s our hotel?” Arcangelo pulled at his sleeves.

The Hotel du Louvre was a large presence lit from within. It looked more like a city than a hotel and faced a large square choked with hundreds of horse-drawn vehicles. Pedestrians called to one another, disappeared into the dark, or gathered around tour guides. Some hailed fiacres and voitures de remise. Men hawked newspapers. Women sold flowers.

In contrast with the surrounding panache, Serafina’s group were weary from a seventy-six-hour journey. Grit from the train had seeped into their clothes, and Serafina thought she heard the concierge sniff as he handed her the keys. As she signed the register, she looked at Carmela blinking in the splendor, at Tessa leaning against Rosa, her eyes barely open, at Teo, nodding his head into a book pretending not to be exhausted or impressed by the surroundings. Arcangelo yanked at the cuffs of his sleeves.

“May I take your knapsack and show you to your room?” a bellboy asked Teo in schoolbook Italian.

Normally quick with a reply, Teo was silent, absorbed in a new world decorated in the style of Louis Quinze. He clutched his book. His eyes were giant figs.

Instead of taking the long and impressive staircase, they rode to the eighth floor in a contrivance called a lift. Their rooms faced the front, seven separate chambers furnished in French rococo with a view of the Place du Palais Royal and beyond it, the Jardin des Tuileries. Each room had its own maid curtseying in front of the door, and inside, gilt and marble inlay, a rock crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling, a large bedroom and a water closet with porcelain bathtub, hot-running water, and a pile of soft towels. Lush. Intimidating.

Serafina smelled heat pouring in from the floor vents of her corner room. She breathed in moist air when she opened doors leading to a balcony overlooking the Place du Palais Royal. In the near distance, the Tuileries were silent and dark except for the gas lamps which threw pools of light far into the park. She watched the people on the ground below, some walking, others embracing, still others getting into cabs. All seemed carefree, full of energy and laughter.

While Gesuzza sat in a far corner of Serafina’s suite, the chambermaid rolled down the damask bedspread. Carmela and Rosa admired the silk sheets. Tessa, Teo and Arcangelo huddled together, reluctant to go to their own rooms.

“In two days you’ll be used to all this luxury,” Serafina said. “And in two weeks you’ll be speaking the language like natives.”

“Can we order breakfast in our rooms?” Tessa asked.

“Anything you want.”

The three looked at one another, whispering.

There was a knock on the door. Giulia and two of her assistants bustled in, lugging several dresses from the House of Grinaldi for Carmela and two evening gowns for Serafina. For a moment it seemed like home with all the flying hands, the hugs, the kisses, the exclamations. Then Carmela took Giulia and her friends to her room so she could try on her new wardrobe, and Rosa went with Gesuzza to supervise the unpacking.

“Over here,” Tessa said, motioning to Arcangelo and Teo. “Take a look at the square.”

Teo corrected her. “You mean piazza.”

“No, she means place. It’s the Place du Palais Royal,” Serafina said to the empty room.

Lulled by the sudden quiet and the cool breeze from the open balcony doors, Serafina sank into the comfort of a well-padded chair, one which, for a change, did not roll or sway. She pulled out her notebook and after flipping back and forth through the pages, wrote a few lines summarizing the journey, underlining their encounters with the men who followed them. She thought them harmless and without sense, but annoying. She may have dozed until Rosa’s skirt brushed by her.

The madam waddled over to the French doors leading to the balcony. Visoring her eyes she said, “Look at all the gas lamps and the traffic, my girl.”

Teo, Arcangelo, and Tessa continued to gaze at the square below, bustling with more carriages and horse-drawn vehicles than they’d seen in one place, ever, even in Palermo. But the flow of traffic was different here, Teo pointed out, more orderly.

“Tonight we tour and eat,” Serafina said, closing her notebook. “Tomorrow we work.” She thought they’d have plenty of time to visit museums and exhibits after she dispensed with Elena’s killer.

“Not all of us. Remember Tessa is on holiday.”

Tessa shook her head. “I’m here to work with Teo and Arcangelo. I’m one of them, remember?”

“We need her,” Teo said.

In a few minutes, waiters arrived with trays carrying food steaming under glass and silver domes. They arranged it on a long dining table in the middle of the room.

“This is a light supper, Madame, as you so wished. You do not wish to dine in one of the restaurants?” a waiter asked in Italian, his dialect barely intelligible.

“Not tonight. I hope this a good sampling of the menu,” Rosa said.

“Yes, Madame.”

“Enough for all of us? We’re ten with our visitors and we’re famished. And there’d better be dessert.”

“But of course, Madame, let me show you.” He picked up each lid as he explained the dish in detail. “A selection from the chef’s kitchen-escargots marinated in wine.” He plunked down the lid and it made a soft metallic bong as he picked up another. “A dish of shallots in a light cream sauce, some fresh legumes, and a surprise for you, caviar mixed with pine nuts and basil oil-very, how shall I say, Mediterranee to suit your palette-sweetbread and tongue of veal, cream of chestnut with a duck foie gras, and a specialty, stewed figs and sardines.” He paused, frowning at Rosa’s wrinkled nose. “The soup is a beef and onion consomme topped with toasted bread and Gruyere. And we have six bottles of red wine from the Medoc and four bottles of chilled white from Chablis.” The waiter folded his hands over his ample stomach, his bulging eyes on Rosa. “And if that will be all, Madame…”

“No dolci?”

“When you ring for them, Madame, we will bring the desserts and cafe-creme brulee flambee, profiteroles smothered in chocolate, crepes flambeed with a liqueur, chocolate cake with creme caramel glacee.” The waiter’s face was red, the tips of his mustache turned down. He ran a hand over his forehead and blew out air from rounded cheeks. “Whatever else you need, Madame, to make your mouth water, you have only to ask.” The waiter winked at Rosa who beamed and spoke to him in broken French, asking for cafe and dessert to be brought up in thirty-five minutes. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out some bills and pressed them into his hand.

Watching this transaction, Serafina said, “Surprising, your French is so good, I didn’t know.”

Rosa shrugged. “All the trips to Paris when I was young. The language returns.”

Chapter 8: Sophie de Masson

Carmela looked at herself in the glass. She was clothed in a simple day dress of silk brocade in a deep French blue with overskirts in a lighter fabric gathered in the back to form a bustle, one of the garments her sister had given her last night. She adjusted the small hat she wore to a slight angle. The hat was a simple one, her favorite; she’d made it herself, a black pillbox with a stiff veil and tall, wafting feathers which she hoped added to her height. She worked it up and down, tilting it slightly on her head and angling the feathers just so. Resourceful with the few tools he’d brought with him, Teo had polished her boots to a high shine earlier that morning. Carmela put on her gloves and turned from the mirror. “How do I look?”

“Stunning.” Serafina kissed her daughter. “And what you’ve done with the hat, exquisite. Any questions?”

Carmela shook her head. “Teo and Arcangelo will follow at a distance and wait outside while we tour the exhibit. Tessa’s quite excited.”

“Gesuzza must go with you,” Rosa said. “I don’t trust the men who follow us. I think I may have seen them cross the square as we alighted from the omnibus last night.”

“Your imagination, perhaps?” Serafina asked.

“Can’t be too safe,” Rosa said.

Serafina wouldn’t argue with her friend. So far there didn’t appear to be any danger. She knew the location of the hotel was in one of the finest districts of Paris, but all the same, she trusted Rosa’s instincts. She remembered her fears last night when they’d emerged from the Gare de Lyon. Oh, well, it must have been her weariness, the station and the smoke, and the proximity to the prison.

Serafina yawned. She and Rosa had been waiting for several minutes in Madame Sophie de Masson’s parlor. Serafina sat near the center of the room in an overstuffed chair next to a porcelain lamp with a large shade. She touched the fringe and it danced, casting light and shadow about her rose silk day dress. The hem and underside of the collar were frayed in spots, but it was one of only three decent dresses she owned. After she caught the killer, she’d have Giulia make her a new wardrobe. She bent and rubbed the street off the toes of her boots.

The room had a slight musty smell but not a hint of dust anywhere, Serafina made sure to check. She and Rosa had been waiting quite some time when the butler entered. Walking behind him, a maid carried a tea service with an assortment of tarts and madeleines.

“Madame de Masson sends her regrets,” the butler said. “She begs your forbearance but has had some unexpected business to attend to this morning and is sorry to detain you. She will be with you shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy some tea.”

Serafina and Rosa looked at each other and smiled. “Please tell her not to rush. We have the morning.”

After the maid served them, she curtsied and left.

Serafina set her cup down and walked to the window, parting the drapes and gazing out at the scene below. Sophie de Masson’s apartment occupied the two top floors of a building with an unprepossessing address on the Rue des Juifs in the fourth arrondissement. There was no traffic to speak of, just a flower seller at the end of the block and an attractively dressed couple entering a store on the other side of the street. Serafina turned from the window, took a bite of madeleine, and sat.

In a few minutes, the door opened and a young man approached in striped pants and frock coat. He had a distinctive gait, used an ebony cane with a silver handle. In his other hand he carried a top hat and gloves. His hair was a reddish brown, curly, not unlike Serafina’s. Although shorter than hers, it was long for a man’s hair style, below his collar in the back. About Carlo’s height and age, Serafina thought, perhaps a year or two younger. His face was earnest and filled with freckles, and he wore a kippah.

“I’m Ricci de Masson, Sophie’s youngest son,” he said in an Italian Serafina had trouble understanding. “Mother told me you were here. I was five on our last visit to Palermo, but I wanted to welcome you to Paris in your native tongue and to extend my wishes for your stay in our city.”

He was earnest enough. It wasn’t often Serafina saw a redhead with gray eyes. “How lovely of you to stop in. Your Italian is interesting, but I think if you spoke French we’d be able to understand you just as well-not Parisian French, mind, but a pure French.”

“Better,” Rosa said and winked at him, introducing herself.

He was nimble, as yet had not stopped smiling, and bowed to the madam. “How long will you be in Paris?”

“We’re here on a sad business, I’m afraid.”

“I think I know-Elena’s death, isn’t it?”

Serafina nodded.

“Most people who talk about her don’t say nice things about her, but I liked her. We went to Longchamp together a few weeks ago. It was a memorable afternoon. Elena seemed happier than I’ve seen her in recent months. Have you been?”

“Sadly, no, and I don’t think we’ll have the chance.”

“But you must. Is this your first visit?”

“I studied here many years ago at La Maternite at Port Royal. I’m a midwife.”

“But you have to go to Longchamp. I own part of a horse and he’s racing there next week.”

“Part of a horse?”

He grinned. “I’m one of the owners. They run on grass, you know. If you stand close to the rail, you can hear the thunder of their hooves. Such a sound-like the beating of God’s heart. Listen to it once, and you’ll yearn for it over and over again, I promise. And if you need a guide, I know a Paris you won’t see by studying Galignani’s travel books. I’d love to take you around. Do you travel here alone?”

“Our daughters and some other family members are with us.”

He handed Serafina his card and she stuck it in her notebook to look at later.

“I must be going.” He stared at Serafina’s bare head. “I sell hats if you need one.” With that he bowed and took his leave.

“Just like Sophie to keep us waiting,” Rosa said through the madeleine in her mouth. “At least the son is polite.” She unbuttoned her jacket and adjusted her hat, a tiny dark green velvet affair with curved quail feathers and elaborate netting, tilting it more to the side of her head and smoothing her dress, a verdigris brocade with a gossamer overskirt in a lighter shade, pulled to the back, the whole forming quite the bustle.

They smelled the odor of something cloying, and heard footsteps in the hall.

“Here she comes. Smothered in that same perfume she wore at home,” Rosa said.

A tall, rather stout woman entered, her arms outstretched, the gold chain of a monocle dangling from her neck. She greeted her guests with a peck close to each cheek, meager for visitors from her hometown. Sophie de Masson was followed by two maids who helped her into her chair, arranged her skirt, poured her tea, and departed.

Her mouth moved from side to side. “Oh, my dear friends. Do forgive me, but business detained and I’m the only one to do it in this blessed town. Ricci and David try, but they’re young.” Sophie sipped her tea. “Three-would you believe-three stores to manage. My brother gives me no rest, and my oldest, Beniamino, is nowhere to be found. Lolling about in the south, no doubt. The middle son, on the other hand, cannot get enough of the business. More interested in counting the money than in how we make it, and unfortunately, Ricci is Ricci. Fancies women and horses, but he knows little of buying and selling. You know my husband is dead. Died when they were too young, I’m afraid.” Exuding a scent of spoiled flowers, and talking more to herself than to others, Sophie de Masson squinted into their faces while telling them how much they hadn’t changed and how much she loved Rosa’s hat. “Our design in Palermo, no doubt.” She peered at Serafina’s bare head but said nothing.

Serafina noticed Sophie was not in mourning. Instead, she wore a day dress of gold and silver, exquisitely crafted and in the latest fashion with burnished gold lace trim at the wrists and neck. As she leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, and Serafina noticed something strange about the woman’s face. Before she could decide what it was, Sophie crossed her legs and Serafina’s attention was diverted by the woman’s petticoat in antique lace and her diamond-studded slippers with velvet ribbons. On her right hand, Sophie wore three rings, an emerald surrounded by pearls, a small sapphire on her little finger, and a thick silver and gold band with a square ruby in the center on her middle finger. Her neck was surrounded in lace and pearls. She wore a fitted jacket of a darker shade than the dress but in the same weave, flaring over the bustle and continuing down the back to form a train. Ten-thirty in the morning and the woman was painted and coiffed to perfection with a subtlety of style uniquely French. Her maid must have spent hours.

“We’re here to talk about Elena and to extend our condolences,” Serafina began.

“No need. Good riddance, I say.” Sophie raised her head.

And that was that. This family had a penchant for graceless surprise-the son, charming yet overly familiar; his mother, blunt and unkind. Serafina reached for her tea clutching her chest, taking deliberate breaths. She took a gulp of the steaming liquid and glanced at Rosa whose face was red.

“If I may, I’d like to see the body.”

“Buried, I’m afraid, in a family plot on my estate in Versailles. In ground blessed by the rabbi.”

“But Elena was Christian.”

“In name only.” She sipped her tisane through rouged lips. “Everything she did was for herself, despite the family’s wishes. Her ancestors suffered for centuries. They were compliant when Frederick II of Aragon made them wear the red wheel. They were banished from their homes, made to live in ghettoes, finally expelled from the island, refusing to convert. Slowly we crept back, but still we have to hide. My brother’s a fool for remaining in Palermo, and you ask me why I buried his daughter according to the law? Her forebears never renounced their faith, and just because Elena wanted a title, she converted-that wretched father-in-law of hers insisted on it. No dignity, I’m afraid. Her husband’s religion meant nothing to her. She trifled with God, and now see what her cleverness has done for her. No, the least I could do for the sake of our ancestors was to bury her according to our tradition.”

Serafina was silent.

Rosa stirred in her seat, a rustle of taffeta, a whiff of rose water. “I would think that religion, whether Catholic or Jewish, meant nothing to her. But she wasn’t a bad person, not really. She wished no one harm.”

Serafina slid her friend a grateful look.

As if she didn’t hear Rosa’s remark, Sophie said, “Here I can follow our rules for burial, so I did. I don’t expect you to understand or condone. I could care less what you think. I was following the wishes of the family, not of the living, but of the generations.”

The silence carried on.

Serafina set down her tea cup and spoke. “But I’m here to investigate her death. You must know your brother who grieves for the loss of his daughter, his only child, commissioned me to bring her killer to justice.”

“She was murdered? News to me. Suicide or murder, hard to tell which, but I will say this, that whichever, it was a just end.”

Rosa looked at Serafina.

“Then I have misunderstood,” Serafina said. “Your brother talked of murder only. My impression is that the police think it was murder. We meet with the prefect this afternoon. And what about you? You identified the body, no?”

Sophie looked at her hands, not at her guests. “Yes, hard to tell at first that it was my niece. One side of her face no longer existed.”

“Do you think her death was murder or suicide?”

Sophie closed her eyes and shook her head. “I haven’t a clue, nor do I care.”

“Which side of her face was destroyed?” Rosa asked.

“Pardon?”

“When you viewed the body, which side of the face did you see?” Rosa asked again, her voice louder, her speech slower.

“What difference does it make?”

“My friend asks an important question,” Serafina said. She felt no need to explain.

Sophie stopped and considered. Her eyes flicked to the side. “I saw… the right side of the face. The head was placed so that the left side of her face was hidden. Dreadful experience, I’d love to forget it, but I cannot do so now, since you remind me.” She removed a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “The inspector wouldn’t let me send a servant. No, I had to go myself.”

“No one went with you?”

She didn’t answer the question but was silent for a time, keeping company with her thoughts. “The stench. Paris morgue, you know. Public gawping at dead bodies. Disgusting. I’d heard about it, but believe me, the place is worse than I’d imagined. I had to get Elena’s body out of there.”

“How did the police know to call you?”

Sophie de Masson eyed Serafina as if she were a dullard. “She had identification in her reticule.”

“And you’re positive it was the body of your niece?”

Again she shot her a look. “Of course. Even in death she managed to look like a trollop. Such a horror that a member of our family could do so much to tarnish our name. It was one thing not to want to assume her role in our business. She had brains, but no time for them. Like my oldest, I’m afraid. We could have made inroads into ready wear. For all his laziness, Beniamino has some interesting ideas on that score. He tells me we need to play a greater role in the middle classes, must have a presence in the grand department stores. Ever since that man and his peasant wife opened Le Bon Marche, it is the thing to do, and I fear for the name of Busacca in fifty years. Yet I am hesitant, but he begs me to be a part of it. He says we should sell in Le Bon Marche, La Samaritaine, show in les grands magazins du Louvre. But you see I’m old; I have neither the time nor the energy to become involved. And I worry. Such a decision to make by myself.”

“But there’s your brother.”

“What does he know of French taste? If we were to sell in these large stores, perhaps it would cheapen the name. I have such fears for the way Beniamino wants to give up our stores, but at least he is interested enough to pose the question. Now, as to Elena. I was delighted to receive her when she arrived. I had expectations, you know, and such plans. You must admit she attracts a crowd. But right away she made friends with the artists, the poets. Beyond the falling out over business, her life, such as it was, left me no choice but to have nothing to do with her. She was a horror. Spoiled, as a child. Had everything given to her. So you see, we never had much in common. When she arrived, I didn’t quite know what to say to her, and she’d disappear for months at a time. Her life was an abomination. She disgraced the family. And her death is not much better, such a brutal affair. But she deserved it.”

Serafina felt the blood in her veins turn to ice, and she stole a glance at Rosa. The madam was pale.

“But I need to find out exactly what happened to her,” Serafina said.

Sophie straightened in her chair.

“Have you been in contact with her husband?” Serafina asked.

“Never. I have nothing to do with him.”

They were silent, the three of them, for a moment.

“If you will excuse me,” Sophie rang the bell.

“I think we’ve heard enough for now, except for one more question. What convinced you that the body you saw was indeed that of your niece?”

“Her purse of course with various papers of identity. There was a card with her husband’s photo and one of my brother. Not a good likeness, but, well, unmistakable. I knew, therefore, that the body I stared at could only be Elena’s. The shape of her body was roughly the same, although the dead do have such a foreignness about them.”

“No other marks that would identify her? Rings? Necklaces? Family jewels?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t recall seeing any. Now if you will excuse me…” She rang again for the butler.

They walked to the carriage in silence, Serafina breathing in the fresh air, glad to be done with Sophie. Paris was serene, this neighborhood leafy and silent, spared from Baron Haussmann’s harsh restorations, haunted in a way that only old neighborhoods can be. They watched a family in black walking on the other side of the street, a father and sons with curls and fur hats and prayer shawls, the mother and girls following behind. A grocer in his apron stood in the doorway of his shop, his arms crossed, his face pleasant. He nodded to them as they passed.

“Sophie is such a arrogant creature. A beauty in her time but a shame she’s let herself go,” Rosa said. “I knew we’d get nothing from her.”

“On the contrary,” Serafina said.

They stood on the Pont Neuf admiring the statue of Henry IV and the charm of the Place Dauphine. But the flying buttresses of Notre Dame reminded Serafina of the creep of despair. For a while they watched the barges glide up and down the Seine until she said something about her feet.

“That’s all you can say of Paris is that your feet ache? Look around you. The style, the vigor, the glorious food, the pomp, the gilt, the spectacle.”

“Will you stop?”

“The parks and buildings, Haussmann’s magnificence, Paris glittering and transformed, the romance of it-so beautiful it wets my eyes.”

Serafina was amazed. The madam waxed poetic. She wished she could stick her feet in a bowl of hot water.

Rosa continued. “The buildings freshly whitewashed, the slate roofs gleaming with pale light, the doors covered in such luscious colors and such thick lacquer. Even the chimneys complement the scene. And look at the wide boulevards and how they’re paved. If I have to listen to you complaining about how cold you are one more time, I’ll scream, I swear it. We have an hour to spare before we meet with the prefect. Take Busacca at his word and have them design a hat for you. No wonder your feet are frozen.

Rosa had a point. They hired a fiacre and made their way to Busacca et Fils, Milliners, a large store on the corner of Rue de la Paix and Rue St. Augustin. A beam of sun shone on the glass. Hats, hats, hats filled the window, and the shellacked wooden facade was painted a lovely shade of chromium oxide. As they opened the door, a brass bell sounded their arrival. They were met by a man in a waxed mustache and frock coat.

“Ah, such a shame, you have just missed Madame.” He wrung his gloved hands. “She left not five minutes ago for an appointment.”

“When do you expect her return? I’ve a question I forgot to put to her earlier today.”

“Soon.” He smiled. “She went around the corner. She shouldn’t be long. If you care to wait, I will have my designer show you something to suit your extraordinary face.”

After she presented Busacca’s card, the clerk begged her to be seated at one of many small tables and rushed to the back of the store. She saw elegantly attired women at other stations, clerks dressed in black showing them hats with feathers, small pill boxes with elaborate veils. He returned with a woman wearing a smock, a measuring tape draped around her neck. She carried several hats, most of them in wool, some in velvet, others in straw; some large with interesting brims to guard from the sun, but all were serviceable and stylish at the same time.

“A woman is not dressed until she wears a hat, Madame.”

“This is not her usual costume,” Rosa said. “She’s a sleuth. She’s been following seedy types in different parts of town and dressing down for the occasion. Imagine her in suitable attire, please, and do design for a more mysterious but serviceable look. She’s not used to the bite of Paris stones in the spring.”

“Yes, Madame. We have women come to us from all over the world and in all manner of dress who are not used to wearing hats, especially if their climate is warm. But the right hat brings out the unique mystery of a face. And both of you have such interesting faces, I welcome the chance to design for you.”

The designer stuck a wool hat on Serafina. Ridiculous, too much red, it clashed with the rose color of her dress and made her hair look like an orange spider’s nest. But the designer fussed with it, shaping the brim, experimenting with different angles, with feathers, ribbons, veils. “No, no, won’t do,” the woman muttered. “But wait,” she said, through the pins in her mouth while her fingers flew. From her pocket she pulled out a small flower in various shades of rose and dark red, held it to one side, wedged in a large curving feather and a few light green velvet leaves and pinned the arrangement to the silk moire ribbon with a turquoise clasp.

“Now, Madame, regard,” the designer said, stepping back, one hand on her creation.

Serafina looked at her reflection in the glass. The hat had something, she had to admit. She smiled into the mirror. “A transformation. You are an artist.”

Rosa agreed and asked the woman for her card.

“Let me do something for you, Madame. Sit, please.”

As the designer worked to fashion a hat for Rosa, Serafina looked at her watch pin.

“I was hoping to speak with Madame de Masson, but the gentleman at the desk told me she had an appointment. Do you expect her back soon?”

The woman seemed not to have heard the question. Serafina asked it again.

“Yes, Madame, she should be back soon. Her doctor’s office is around the corner, on a small street in back of the store, the Rue St. Arnaud. We expect her very soon, to be sure.”

“Dear me, I hope nothing’s wrong,” Rosa said.

The designer was silent.

“So there is something wrong,” Rosa said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Nothing any of us can mend, I’m afraid. She’s losing her eyesight, poor woman.”

Church bells chimed the hour.

“No more time. Best be going,” Rosa said and tugged at Serafina’s sleeve.

Chapter 9: The Prefect of Paris

On the way to their appointment with the prefect, Serafina thought about what she’d heard from the designer at Busacca et Fils.

“If Sophie’s going blind, how could she have identified Elena?” Rosa asked.

“I’m increasingly uneasy about her ability to identify anything, let alone the body of a niece whom, by admission, she seldom saw.”

“You mean Elena’s alive?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Past who?”

“Elena, of course.”

“That’s interesting,” the madam said. “Why are we here?”

“To sort out the mystery, of course.”

“But that’s not why Busacca commissioned you, is it?”

“Don’t split hairs. Perhaps, just perhaps, I can bring her back to life.”

Rosa waved a hand back and forth in front of her face while Serafina wrote in her notebook.

“Anyway, this investigation is becoming interesting. Do you remember if Elena was right- or left-handed?”

“Why would I know a thing like that?” Rosa asked.

Serafina was silent as their carriage turned onto the Rue de Rivoli and was stopped by heavy traffic ahead.

“Plenty of time,” Rosa said. “How the French love to parade. But you’ve got to admit, they know how to dress.”

They watched as guards with their plumy hats trotted their horses two by two, trumpets blaring while their coach waited for them to pass.

“Perhaps Elena is ambidextrous. Given her temperament, it figures.”

Serafina made no reply.

“There you are, dreaming again. Loffredo would know, but he’s nowhere to be seen. You haven’t heard from him?”

Serafina bit her lip. “I sent a message to his hotel, his usual accommodation in the sixth arrondissement, but there was no reply.” She took deep breaths.

Rosa patted Serafina’s hand. “There must be a reason why he’s not shown up. Something simple, I’ll wager, like your forgetting he told you he’d be out of town, traveling in the south or some such explanation, so simple it slipped your mind.”

Serafina gave her a look and was silent, their carriage stopping for more congestion. She looked at her watch pin. “I hope the time on this thing is wrong. We have twenty minutes before our meeting with the commissioner or whatever it is they call him.” She felt her stomach doing somersaults and borrowed Rosa’s fan to wick away the moisture on her face. “How do I look?”

“Like a fairy princess. And they call him prefect. He’s a handsome one, and popular. Stern, but we’ll get around that. They say his salary is fifty-thousand francs.”

They were silent as they passed the gutted hulk of Hotel de Ville, a reminder of the disaster that was the Commune. In her mind Serafina heard the shouts, smelled the blood, the powder and the fury, reminding her of uprisings at home. But as their carriage turned into the quai and crossed the Pont Notre-Dame, she was entranced by the scenery and the dash of midmorning Paris, the clop of horses hooves, the city workers in their striking blue overalls and jackets, the sun glinting off the windows of their carriage. Presently they stopped in front of the prefecture of police and the driver helped them out of the carriage. He pulled out his watch and rubbed a dirty thumb over the crystal. “Plenty of time. Up those stairs and through that door. Tell the secretary you’re to meet with the prefect in ten minutes. My Belle Helene and I will be waiting over there.”

“Belle Helene?”

“The horse,” Rosa said.

He gestured to a spot underneath a row of chestnuts. “Can’t miss us. Just look for the most beautiful woman in all of Paris, that’s my Helene.”

Inside, they climbed the marble staircase, following an agent of police who led them up to the first floor of an ornate building, the new home of the prefecture of police. The honorable Leon Renault himself stood at the top of the stairs to greet them, accompanied by his assistant.

Serafina found herself staring at the man, struck by his bearing, the clarity of his voice, a certain humor about the eyes, and the transparency of his demeanor. Although he appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his mutton chops were already flecked with gray. He wore striped pants, a gray waistcoat and starched shirt, silk cravat, and a frock coat. They fitted his large frame to perfection. She’d read of his bravery during the Franco-Prussian War culminating in the Siege of Paris and afterward his role in quelling the Paris Commune.

“Your mayor, Notabartolo, telegraphed our office, Madame. Welcome. You have many admirers in your country.”

“And this is my friend, Madame Rosa Spicuzza, my assistant.”

Renault took Rosa’s hand and kissed it. The madam responded with a regal smile.

“You investigate the death of Elena Loffredo, countess of Oltramari. What may we do for you in that regard?” he asked. “And this is the inspector assigned to the case, Alphonse Valois.”

A slight man in frock coat and cravat, Valois inclined his head.

“First, on behalf of my country and the family of Elena Loffredo, thank you for your warm reception and for your handling of the case thus far,” Serafina began.

“You have my full cooperation. When it comes to the particulars, Inspector Valois is better able to assist.”

The inspector smiled.

Renault turned to him. “We have someone in custody you told me? But not charged as yet?”

Valois cleared his throat. “Not a French citizen, your honor. We were afraid he’d flee.”

Serafina found it difficult to breathe. “Excuse me? His name?”

Valois said nothing.

Renault frowned. “Madame Florio and her assistant are to be given every courtesy, as if she were one of our own detectives.” He looked at Serafina. “If you need anything, please call on me.”

She nodded slowly, her heart racing, convinced their suspect was Loffredo. She must free him. “I’ve just begun, of course, but I have some questions.” She felt rather than saw Valois stiffen, but she persisted. “A woman losing her eyesight identified the body.”

“The nearest living relative,” Valois said.

“Except for the woman’s husband who happened to be in Paris at the time of her death.”

Valois opened his mouth to speak but the prefect interrupted.

“You were saying, Madame?”

“Why wasn’t her husband shown her body and asked to identify it? And I’ve other questions about the case, such as-”

Rosa intruded herself, smiling. “Sometimes haste is our greatest enemy, but our country appreciates your adept handling of this gruesome murder. We believe we’ll learn a lot from mutual understanding and commitment.”

“Exactly.” Renault smiled. He brought out his watch and slapped his forehead. “Please excuse me. I have a meeting with the president in less than five minutes. Remember, you have an open door to my office. Take care of them, Valois. Don’t forget-extend every courtesy and share our knowledge.”

Serafina turned to Rosa. With her eyes, she begged the madam to make conversation.

“We must seem like foreigners bent on taking over the case, but I assure you that’s not our intent. What a lovely suit. English, no?”

Valois ran his hand down one lapel. Beads of water formed on his forehead. “Yes, from London. My wife does the shopping.”

“Then my compliments to her taste,” Rosa said.

“There’s a lift to my office,” Valois said. “This way.”

They walked on either side of the inspector, Serafina listening to their footsteps on the granite floor. He was moving faster than he needed to, forcing them to keep up with his pace.

“Until the Communards burned it down, we were all located in the Hotel de Ville.”

“I remember,” Serafina said, smiling. “Although the last time I was in Paris, I was a student and had no reason to visit you, but I daresay, you were a student then, too.”

The wretched man stared at her as if she were talking nonsense. She looked at Rosa.

As they waited for the lift, Serafina swallowed. Acid burned in her stomach, and she felt a lump forming in the back of her throat. Her nostrils flared but she held her tongue while Rosa stumbled on as best she could with pleasantries. The madam talked of Marseille, the administrative genius of France, the weather.

The three of them squeezed into the lift. Serafina could smell Valois’ cologne, vetiver, she thought. As the machine shuddered and began to move, she closed her eyes, sure that it could not hold their combined weight, but the ride was short and as they came to the floor, she dabbed her eyes and forehead with a linen. She looked at Rosa who shook her head. Both women were silent.

Valois’ office was impressive if small, and it fronted the building. Serafina walked to the window and looked out. She could see the Seine, hear the horses’ hooves on the cobbles, the bustle of traffic in the square below. Breathing in the energy of the city, she vowed she and the inspector would come to terms with each other.

When she and Rosa were seated, Serafina said, “You must forgive me,” she began, breathing hard. “I’ve heard bits and pieces, a disjointed tale of the events surrounding Elena’s death. Believe me, her father told me of his daughter’s death and asked me early Friday morning to find her killer and bring him to justice. After I accepted, he told me I must travel to Paris that very evening. We arrived last night. We’ve had a long journey, well over seventy-six hours, dropping everything to travel here, so I would appreciate hearing the details from you.” She drew out a notebook from her bag.

Valois looked at his watch. “Understand, Madame, I was unaware of your arrival until this morning when a messenger from an important Parisian milliner gave us the news of your arrival.”

Serafina doubted that, but said nothing.

The inspector continued. “Unfortunately I have but thirty minutes before I have a meeting which I am obligated to attend, so I will be thorough, but brief.” He sighed. “A patrolman on duty discovered a body on the Rue Cassette shortly before dawn on Thursday, April 16.” He consulted a large folder on his desk, flipped through the pages, and looked again at his watch.

“You’re uncomfortable, I can see,” Serafina said. “Would you rather I returned later this afternoon?”

“Impossible.” He slammed a palm on top of his desk. “You and I must come to an understanding, and the sooner we do, the better for all.”

“I’d like nothing more.”

“Then I’ll get to the point. Your presence here is a formality. Although he treated you with the deference due a foreign dignitary, the prefect knows it. I know it. The Busacca family knows it. Only you seem to be unaware of the perfunctory nature of your visit. You deal with La Surete Nationale, founded by the great Eugene Francois Vidocq, the father of modern detection. Our organization is the forerunner of all such agencies, so make no mistake as to my meaning, Madame, when I say, we have completed the case on the death of Elena Loffredo. We have done all your work for you. I cannot state it more plainly than that.”

Serafina bit her tongue to stop her lips from trembling and concentrated on breathing slowly. “Please carry on with the specifics.” The pitch of her voice was higher than normal.

Rosa sat still, a bit out of her element, but to give the madam her due, she knew when to hold her tongue.

Reluctantly he continued. “The woman had been shot, one bullet to the left temple. Burns and gunpowder surrounded the wound. We found papers in her reticule identifying her as Elena Loffredo, Countess of Oltramari. An autopsy was performed a few hours later. It determined that the victim was murdered in the early morning hours of April 16. We made sure the woman was identified by the oldest and closest family member of the deceased, and following the family’s wishes, we released the body to them so that it could be prepared for burial in accordance with Judaic custom. Soon after the woman was discovered, we made inquiries and have detained a person of interest. With a few more hours of persuasive interrogation, I have no doubt he will confess to the countess Elena Loffredo’s murder.”

As Valois spoke, Serafina willed herself to concentrate on the sense of his words, as if they had nothing to do with her. Her body ached from lack of sleep and her heart beat wildly. So Loffredo was in prison, about to be charged with the murder of Elena. Why hadn’t she realized it before this? The pounding in her head grew, making understanding even more difficult. Her breath came in ragged gulps. Pressing fingernails into the palm of her hand, she forced herself to stay calm. She glanced at Rosa who was looking at her feet.

Groping for the right thing to say, Serafina thought she might start out with flattery, then rejected that idea. “I’m not convinced that the body you found in the Rue Cassette is that of Elena Loffredo.” She stopped, letting her words sink in.

Valois’ face was rigid, almost impassive. “I’m not sure I understand you, Madame.”

Rosa said nothing, but nodded her agreement.

Serafina continued. “I believe that hasty conclusions were drawn due to the actions of others, not the least of which was the disregard that Madame Sophie de Masson gave to the body. She identified the dead woman as her niece without the help of other members of her family, when she knew her eyesight was failing. Her sons, for instance, who are in Paris, should have been by her side.”

Color flooded his face. “You mock me. I am always thorough and methodical in my investigation.”

“Nevertheless, I stand by my statement. Deliberate obfuscation on the part of at least one person has caused you to make inaccurate conclusions.”

He shook his head. “The papers the dead woman had on her person were those of Elena Loffredo.”

“The reticule could have been stolen.”

“Possible, but improbable, Madame.” He rose and walked around his office, but he seemed to be considering what she had to say.

“I have photographs of the crime scene if you’d like to see them, but I warn you, they’re offensive in the extreme.”

Rosa shrugged. “You’re speaking to Sicilians. Both our countries have suffered recent atrocities. I’m afraid we’re used to them.”

Valois narrowed his eyes, staring at her, the urgency of his other meeting forgotten. “Her body was twisted, half her face was missing, her clothes torn and muddy.”

“Let’s see the photos.”

He sat and blew air out of his cheeks like a balloon deflating. Staring not at them but at something only he could see, Valois slowly shook his head. “At first I too was puzzled by the anomaly. Papers identified the dead woman as a countess, and yet she was clothed in the garb of a streetwalker. I came to the same conclusion as you-she was not a countess but a courtesan.”

“What changed your mind?”

“We searched the neighborhood and found a cafe owner who identified her as a familiar customer, a frequenter of his restaurant. He said she was often seated at a table in the back with a tall, angular gentleman. The owner didn’t know their names. He called her by her first name, Elena-not done in Paris, at least among polite society, I assure you. He didn’t know the name of the gentleman, but later identified her husband as the tall, angular man in his cafe. So now I have a witness, a cafe owner who calls her by the name listed on the documents in the dead woman’s reticule.”

“Where is this cafe?”

“Cafe Odile on the Rue de Vaugirard.”

Serafina made a note of it.

“I admit it, I’m unfamiliar with Sicilian countesses. But I’ve heard of the penury of the aristocracy on your island.”

Serafina was silent for a moment. “Elena’s family is not part of the penurious aristocracy, as you put it. Her title is acquired by marriage, not inherited. And her family’s wealth comes from trade.”

“At the time of her death, I knew nothing about her or her family.”

She thought for a moment. “I’d like to see the photos and the documents and the gun.” She knew she shouldn’t have snapped at him. The man was justifying his conclusion, laying out his thinking process, more for himself, she realized, than for her benefit. She felt his confusion. She must be patient.

He walked to the window and spoke, his back to them. “And there is something else I’d hoped not to touch on. It is of a delicate nature.”

“Go on.”

“Yes, Inspector, spare us your delicacy,” Rosa said.

“The Parisian demimonde is vast and has varied tastes.” He faced them. “There are certain women, upper class women, who for whatever reason like to…”

“We know all about slumming,” Rosa said, waving a dismissive hand. “Not that we condone it. What Elena calls being a free spirit we call unacceptable behavior. But we’ve known her for a long time. We went to primary school together, to celebrations with her, attended her wedding. We’ve been watching her flaunt convention all our lives. We’ll be able to clear up this anomaly of yours if you show us the photos.”

“And we’d like to see the gun,” Serafina said.

“The gun?” he asked. There was derision in his manner.

“I know little about them, it is true. I mean the pistol found in the dead woman’s hand.”

He clamped his jaw, opened the middle drawer of his desk and reached in, searching with his hand. “I warn you, the photos are not pretty, and what you call a gun is an ordinary double-barreled pocket pistol made by an American company, Derringer. It’s kept in the evidence drawer for this case along with the contents found in the reticule. They are locked in a special room.”

“Then I’d like to see all of the evidence later, but the photos now,” Serafina said.

Chapter 10: The Exhibit

Carmela smelled varnish and oil as she entered the studio at 35 Boulevard des Capucines. She felt a hush in the space she couldn’t quite explain. Her skin prickled as she walked slowly around the room, surveying the paintings. There were so many. They made her smile and forget everything else. She thought of the courageous endurance of these artists. Rejected time and again by the Salon, Tessa told her, yet they continued with their work despite their poverty, often spending their money on paints and brushes rather than on nourishing food.

For Tessa, the experience was monumental, Carmela thought. She could feel the girl’s excitement. Even Gesuzza was interested, although she didn’t say much and stayed by Tessa’s side.

“The room explodes with color and line and movement,” Tessa said, not knowing where to look first. Her face was flushed. She ran to a painting on the far wall, then back to Carmela, grabbing her hand, the maid walking behind and trying to keep up, gesturing from one painting to another. The girl was swept up into their world, their impression of a moment, their intensity of color.

“Should we sit and catch our breath?”

Tessa nodded and they walked over to a bench in the middle of the room, the girl’s eyes moving slowly from one canvas to another.

“Look at that painting. All the people by the sea, dressed in formal clothes, the men in top hats and frock coats, the women in silk dresses,” Tessa said. “I like the stripes on the tent, the colors in the sky, the clouds. I am here, but I am there with them.”

Carmela smiled, letting Tessa have her moment.

“See that woman over there? She’s not a queen or a countess or a saint. She’s ordinary, like me and she breathes. Oh, I want a dress just that color, like a thousand cornflowers crushed into the paint and worked on the canvas until it becomes her dress. I can feel the silk, touch the organdy. She’s what, eighteen or nineteen?”

“I like her hat and parasol,” Carmela said. “And her gloves.”

“And the glow on her face. And she stares out at me with sudden recognition as if we were dear friends and she’s just noticed me coming toward her and is about to hold out her arms in greeting, I can see it in the gesture of her body,” Tessa said. “Oh, and on the other side of the room-did you see her? — the ballerina in blue, turning her head in our direction, half wondering what we’re doing in her dance studio.”

“A moment in time,” Carmela said. “That’s what these paintings show me. And such color. Their gestures are so natural, different from the stiffly posed works in museums.”

They were quiet for a time, taking in the paintings.

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Not yet.”

“Nor I. But I love the mother gazing down at her child in the cradle. Look at how the artist has made the netting.” There was another painting by its side, a mother and child reading by the sea, and another one, perhaps the same mother and child, walking in a field of poppies. Carmela thought she’d never seen red before she saw this painting. “By the same artist-see how they’re signed?”

Tessa nodded. “Morisot.”

“The T is silent. And Berthe is a woman’s name.”

“I’ll never be able to paint like that.” Tessa heard steps approaching, a voice, and she spun around. Carmela did as well, facing the figure, a woman. She spoke in rapid French and Carmela asked her please to slow down.

“Of course. I was saying that this work took only a few hours to create. I took long walks and made sketches. I sat in my atelier for days staring at the wall when all of a sudden, the painting came to me. But it wasn’t me creating, it was the oil and brushes that knew how to touch the canvas, that remembered the exact light of a certain day.”

“You must be Berthe Morisot,” Carmela said.

The woman nodded, wiping her hands on an apron splattered with paint and pinning back a wisp of hair.

Tessa couldn’t tear her eyes from the paintings.

“Would you like a tour?”

“We’d love it!” Carmela said.

“You’re not from France, I can tell.”

Carmela nodded and told her they were from Sicily.

“How lovely. I have an acquaintance from Oltramari, Elena Loffredo. Do you know her?”

“She’s one of the reasons we’ve come to Paris,” Carmela said, feeling her way. It didn’t sound like Berthe Morisot knew of Elena’s death. She was tempted to say more, but remembered her mother’s advice to speak as little as possible.

“Ah, to visit your friend, I see.”

Carmela hesitated, searching for the right tone and hesitation and words. “To bring… news and a request, should we run into her. She’s not my friend exactly, more of an acquaintance. And of course we came to see the exhibit. The young woman who travels with me-” she indicated Tessa who by now was standing in front of an intriguing painting of a man and woman at the opera- “has a real talent for drawing and hopes to join an atelier one day soon, either here or in Rome. And since we travel on business, she and her mother accompany us.”

Berthe nodded, gazing at Tessa. “I see myself in her. She has the enthusiasm and a natural gift, I believe. Very few ateliers accept women, but I know of one. I can help her. Talent is in the fingers, yes, but in the will to pick up the brush, in the sustained longing to paint every day for hours, to paint rather than to be with friends. There’s the mystery-why do we do it?” She spoke to Tessa. “But, yes, I’d be happy to look at your drawings.”

“You’re so kind. I hope we can arrange it.”

“I’m surprised you heard of our exhibit in Sicily. But then, I don’t see why you wouldn’t. All people seem to have rallied round us.”

Carmela nodded. “It’s been a while since I’ve conversed in French, so forgive my difficulty. My… late lover spoke the language and taught me. But getting back to the exhibit, it didn’t get much coverage in the Sicilian papers. We struggle to survive and too many see the arts as non essential, but we have many aristocratic friends because of my mother’s work. They visit Paris all the time and are quite excited about the exhibit. They all plan a visit here this month.”

Berthe Morisot smiled but said nothing, and Carmela feared the conversation was at an end. She groped for something to add that would engender a response; she wasn’t good with meeting strangers, especially speaking in a foreign tongue, and thought she’d run out of words. She wished her mother or Rosa were here. They were so much better at this and were able to converse with such ease, talking on and on.

Finally she said, “Elena must be thrilled with your work.” Now why did she have to add that? It sounded so dull, so patronizing. Well, what did the world expect from her when she was surrounded by children the whole day? Carmela could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks and having such transparent skin, she thought a painter such as Berthe Morisot with her ability to capture flesh tones and facial expressions must grasp her discomfort and lack of social grace. She determined that from now on, she’d close her mouth and listen to the woman’s words.

“Of course, she is. She may not be my favorite person. She is flighty in the extreme, almost two different people, but her enthusiasm for our work is undiminished. I saw her here the other night, when was it-of course, at the vernissage and again the next night at the opening-and her ardor was overflowing. But she’s been an admirer for years, ever since her arrival in Paris. I think she’s jealous of us. She told me she would begin to take up the brush seriously this year and would have canvases to submit for next year’s exhibit. As if thinking would make it so.”

Carmela said nothing, nodding. She waited.

“Do you know her well?” Berthe Morisot asked.

“By reputation only. She is quite the personality in our little town. We are in the same class, but I could never afford to keep up with her socially. Nor would I want that kind of life. And you see, I have a child and no husband.”

“No need to apologize, not to us.” Berthe Morisot touched Carmela’s hand. “And Elena depends on her husband for her title.”

She felt warmed by Berthe Morisot’s acceptance. Although she was surprised at the woman’s frank appraisal of Elena, she liked her all the more for it.

Just then, Carmela was distracted by the sound of footsteps, the arrival of someone who almost looked familiar, as if she’d seen her somewhere before, perhaps in Oltramari’s piazza or in Boffo’s Cafe.

“Hah, you speak of that little strumpet, Elena,” the woman said, approaching them.

“Not so little any more. She’s putting on the double chins. Didn’t you see her last Thursday?” Berthe Morisot double kissed the newcomer and made introductions. “Carmela, this is a dear friend of mine, Victorine Meurent, a fellow painter who exhibits at the Paris Salon, the same one that rejected most of the artists who exhibit here. At times she’s quite the actress.”

“I model from time to time, that’s what Berthe means to say,” Victorine said. “Unlike some women whose names I won’t mention, I pose for money and work for many painters. One in particular has his nose in the air but has a healthy purse.”

Berthe smiled at Carmela. “She means Edouard Manet. You are familiar with his work?”

“Of course,” Carmela lied. She was mortified for being so out of touch, and felt her latest untruth as a hot blush. She must concentrate and focus and contribute something to this conversation. She would not be written off, not yet.

Berthe continued. “Victorine poses for him all the time. As for me, Edouard’s a friend, and I posed for him a few times-not nude of course-I am too much of a bourgeoisie for that. I modeled for him a few times only because he asked me to.”

“How can you defend him?” Victorine asked. “He refused to submit a painting for your exhibit. He’s saying his works are too good for you. And as for posing for him, you didn’t have to, you know. You could have said no when he asked. After all, Elena refused.” Victorine paused. “I am not at all like Berthe. I’ll take my clothes off if the price is right.”

Berthe spoke up. “Elena is an aristocrat who doesn’t need money and doesn’t care what other people think of her. More to the point, she doesn’t know what she wants. Here today, gone tomorrow. She runs hot and cold and truth to tell, she’s no one’s muse.”

Victorine adjusted her choker. “I beg to differ. She knows exactly what she wants, accolades from an adoring multitude. She’d model at the drop of a hat, preferably in the nude and in the most undignified pose she could imagine if she thought it would garner attention.”

Berthe shook her head. “Lately, she’s becoming more and more… outre. Drops her lovers in a flash. The other day I saw her in the Place St. Sulpice, a crowd gathered round. She was sitting on the stones having a tantrum. I hugged my cape and looked the other way, I tell you. She’s an embarrassment.”

Carmela said nothing, willing the muscles in her face to remain still.

“But in the end, who am I to judge? She’s not so bad, really. Harmless, a cipher,” Victorine said. “Except that her latest whim is painting. She wants to be a part of your movement and fancies herself as talented, although sometimes I think talent is beside the point.”

“I suppose you condone the way she treats her husband?” Berthe asked.

“What does it matter?”

Berthe wiped her hands on her apron. “He’s a wonderful man. I’d go for him in a heartbeat.”

“That’s because you’re looking for a husband.”

“That’s preposterous. Marriage would be the death of my career.” Berthe paused for a moment. “Elena uses her husband. He’s the one with the title. But that has nothing to do with me. I think he’s a gentleman, kind and gracious, a bit shy and although he dresses well, he recedes into oblivion in the face of her outrageous behavior. Her most recent escapade? She flaunts her condition, boasting that she is with child and is not at all sure who the father is. Believe it, she made that remark in front of her latest beau, a scholar twice her age and renowned for his conventional thinking.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Oh, my, well then she does use her husband. The marriage is childless, you know,” Carmela said, hoping that her remark would keep the conversation going. She’d never forgive Loffredo or her mother for their affair, flaunting it in front of the hungry eyes of Oltramari’s gossips, behaving almost as badly as Elena and at the expense of all her children. If she should run out of favor with the commissioner, she’d never work again.

“And did you see him, this scholar, the man she was with Thursday evening?” Berthe asked.

Victorine nodded. “I did, and I don’t know what she sees in him. He makes my skin crawl. Rumor has it he’s the bastard son of a famous abbot, but the Academy will have none of it. They love him.”

“That’s precisely what she sees in him,” Berthe said. “Someone bound hand and foot to the establishment. With him, she’s breaking the rules. She doesn’t care that she’s broken him. Don’t you see? Shock, that’s what she wants. And a new lover each month.”

“She’d better watch out. She’s flirting with ruin.”

Carmela blew a stray curl from her forehead.

“Did you see his face when he looked at the paintings?” Victorine asked. “Went around the exhibit in less than five minutes. It made me sick.”

Berthe Morisot crossed her arms. “Even worse was the way he regarded her. It was as if he were bound to Elena in hate. And yet I pitied him, even though he repulsed me.”

“Well, my dear. You don’t know the half of it. But I will say this in her favor. The frock she wore was a marvel. I would have asked Elena for the name of her dressmaker if I could afford to use her.”

There was another lull. Carmela had to stoke the fires. “I love talk of wardrobes and dresses. Parisian style is so unique. Do describe her frock.”

“A pale green watered silk. I’d never seen quite the color. But it was the jacket that was so clever. A darker green, quilted, gold thread running through it. And the buttons, exquisite with a tight-fitting waist, riding over the bustle and forming a train. It was meant to be tight-fitting, but it ill-suited her.”

“I think she wanted it that way. She wants everyone to know her condition. She flaunts convention,” Victorine said.

“Now that you mention it, I must agree,” Berthe said.

Carmela’s ears perked.

Victorine turned to Carmela. “But enough of this talk. You are a guest in our country and a friend of Elena.”

“Please, you misunderstand me. My family is acquainted with hers, that’s all, but we are not friends. Quite the contrary.”

“Well then.” Victorine moved closer. “I heard that her latest is in fact the father of the child she carries and he’s not at all happy about it. It’s the end of the affair, she told a good friend of mine.”

“Poor man, she’s ruined him.”

Victorine nodded. “Well, she should make another appearance soon, and it will be interesting to see the deterioration.”

“Fancies herself a painter,” Berthe said.

“No!”

They were silent. The subject, it seemed, was at an end.

“And you, Victorine, what do you think of the work in this exhibit?”

“Brilliant question. I must say most of the work here breaks new ground and several of the critics agree.”

“Yes, and for most of the people, the ordinary Parisians, art is very important,” Berthe Morisot said. “For a long time they have longed for art that touches their lives, and so they are in awe of the paintings. And some of the reviewers have been kind to us, too. Many of them, though, not so kind.”

“Who cares what they write, as long as they write about the exhibit. Most reviewers talk nonsense anyway, and the world knows that.”

Tessa returned to the room and the talk of Elena and reviewers stopped.

“Everything is so fresh, so alive,” Tessa said.

“The poses are so natural,” Carmela said. “I feel brand new.”

“And I must be getting back to my studio,” Victorine said. She took Carmela’s hand. “So nice to meet both of you and do please come for a visit. No need to send your card. I’m there all the time. I’d love to show you my work.”

After Victorine left, Berthe Morisot took them through the rest of the rooms. Although she’d seen all of the work while the others were talking, Tessa had to stop at each painting again, enthralled, and Berthe Morisot told them what she knew of each artist. “You see this sunset?”

They nodded and Tessa stepped closer, reading the name. “Claude Monet.”

“And over here-the man there with the straw hat. I must get a straw hat,” Tessa said.

“You must if you want to paint like us, outside, en pleine air.”

“These paintings are all about the light, how it changes from moment to moment,” Tessa said, her face thoughtful, contemplative as she gazed at her favorites.

“One more question if I might,” Carmela began. “Do you have the Paris address for Elena? We have a message for her from her father.”

“I might.” Berthe Morisot went over to the guest book and opened it to the first page. She ran a finger down the rows of names. It took her a few minutes, but she pointed to Elena’s signature and an address in the sixteenth arrondissement. “You can hire a cab or take la petite ceinture. You are familiar with it?”

“The little train that runs around Paris?”

“ C’est ca, exactement. Get off at Station de Passy and walk away from the Bois de Boulogne on the Rue de Passy. She has an apartment on the top two floors of a large building on the Place de Passy. Her father owns the property, she told me. Buy tickets on the train. Children ride free.”

While Carmela stood at the table holding the guest book, she noticed the name underneath Elena’s. Etienne Gaston. “Is this Elena’s latest lover?” she asked.

Berthe Morisot studied the signature and nodded. “That’s the one. What she sees in him… He’s tall enough, handsome, I suppose, if you like his type.”

“His type?”

“Full of himself, my dear. Don’t tell me you’ve never-”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Carmela copied down his address.

Chapter 11: Alphonse Valois

Alphonse Valois lived in the sixth arrondissement on a side street near the fashionable Luxembourg Gardens. It was a hike to and from his office on the Ile de la Cite, but whenever the weather allowed, he walked to work. The twice-daily exercise stretched his legs and his mind, and he loved it. Not, however, this evening. That Sicilian sleuth had spoiled everything.

He crossed the Pont Saint-Michel and strode down the Boul’Mich keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, realizing too late that he’d passed the fountain. So he stood, indecisive, straightening his lapels, staring at the string of plane trees, and letting the crowds of students shove around him until he caught himself. He ran back to the Place Saint-Michel and touched his chapeau melon to the archangel. After patting the dragon’s foot for good measure, he expanded his chest and continued on his way.

Closer to home, he watched an argument between two neighborhood boys whom he’d seen often enough playing in the street together. He had half a mind to break up the fight, but it seemed harmless enough. After all, young boys had arguments. He smiled, glad for the respite from dark thoughts.

Once the investigation had seemed so simple, the murder of a questionable woman whose body was found on the Rue Cassette. Now, because of the Florio woman, the case was like a toothache, intrusive and persistent. He longed to be done with it, to be home within his own four walls where nothing disturbed. He needed a good meal, a restful evening, a gentle talk with his wife about this and that-her garden, the price of veal, the news of the neighborhood, and his son’s day at school.

Life had returned to normal after the war and the bloody days of the Commune. In fact, Parisians seemed to enjoy life even more because of the twin tragedies. He moved on, walking more swiftly down the Rue de Vaugirard toward home.

Looking back on it, he realized part of him had known there’d be complications the moment he’d seen the victim. He should have taken greater care. Her disheveled hair, her painted face, and the ring of dirt around her neck told one story. Her papers told another. According to the Italian passport he’d found in her reticule, she was a Sicilian countess. But he knew the aristocracy were a penurious lot in Sicily. That might explain the woman’s slovenly appearance, or perhaps she’d had a taste for the bizarre.

They’d found her before first light. It was difficult to see so he’d walked to the corner and examined the documents underneath the nearest gaslight. He rubbed his fingers together, remembering the feel of the rough paper. According to the date on the photo, it had been taken some ten years earlier, not a good likeness at all, but half the dead woman’s face had been blown away by the blast. And of course there was a difference between a person’s looks in life and in death. He knew from bitter experience that death stripped away expression.

The mystery of her identity puzzled him during the initial hours of his investigation, along with how and why she died and who could have killed her. Why was the countess in France? She’d been here for quite some time, according to the passport. Perhaps she was a kept woman. Perhaps a gentleman with dubious tastes had paid for her passage and now was tired of her.

He’d gone over and over his initial involvement, his early suppositions, breaking his first movements into simple steps, the loud knock on his door waking him from sleep. He’d walked to the scene with the sergent de ville who’d found her, asking him the basic questions of who, what, when, assuring himself that the body hadn’t been moved, waiting patiently while the photographer took his photos, taking his time with the scene, examining her garments, searching the ground for traces left by her killer, looking for imprints next to the victim, scraps of paper, clumps of hair, a fingernail, anything that did not belong. He made sure he could describe what he’d seen, closing his eyes and imaging the exact position of the body in the street relative to the curb, the placement of the hands, the face, the torso, the feet, writing down his impressions in great detail. He made sure the photographer had recorded the face and body from every angle before he released the dead woman to the morgue.

“Hey you, watch where you’re going? Some kind of peasant? Could have been killed!”

He stepped back from the curb, and tipped his hat to the carter, shouting, “Grateful to you, kind sir,” and continued on, his ears pounding. He felt the rush of blood to his face. Wiping his forehead, he walked more slowly until his heartbeat returned to normal and he could appreciate the moment. He focused on the present by looking around and observing details-the vegetables and fruit displayed in front of the epicerie, the order and care with which they were arranged, the cleanliness of the storefront’s glass. The grocer, Monsieur Dupre stood at his window, a white apron tied around his belly. Valois bowed to him and to the cart vendor at the corner who gave him a toothless grin and held out a bunch of violets. “For your beautiful wife, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.”

He gave the woman a few coins and waved to the driver of a passing carriage, noting the size and color of the horse, the condition of the wheels, the harness and tack. He made a mental note of everything he saw, the debris by the side of the road, the birds in the trees, taking into account anything unusual, fingerprints on the glass of a neighborhood cafe, the rustle of its net curtains. When he arrived at his front gate, he’d quiz himself on what he remembered, the way he did when he was young and carefree and so eager to practice detection.

Good work, Valois. Yes, he’d calmed his spirits and exercised his mental faculties after his meeting today with the prefect and that Sicilian investigator and her friend. Arrogant females who barely spoke two words of proper French. What could they know of his business? Why did they have the audacity to question him? Perhaps not the fat one, no, she’d been polite. She’d had a kind face and spoke passable French, but the one who called herself an investigator, such cheek, and clothed in a style five years past its prime. Francoise would have hidden her smile, but she’d have been amused.

Yes, of course, this was the way to peace for him, an exercise he enjoyed, a stretching of limbs and mind. It was the way to solve cases. Concentrate on the present for the present contains the evidence, physical, incontrovertible. The killer leaves his traces. Few of us see what really goes on around us, but Valois was one of the few. Look at the color they’re painting that door, for instance. Two workers, industrious, not stopping to chat. Such a deep blue, like the color of Francoise’s eyes, and so many coats of varnish. He hadn’t seen it this morning when he’d passed. It lifted the neighborhood. He looked up at the sky and observed the clouds, counted the chimneys on each of the buildings, noted with pride the cream-colored facade of each building. Haussmann was a genius. He wondered what Francoise would say when he told her about Madame Florio.

The victim first entered Paris on Thursday, February 7, 1867 according to the official entry stamp. So she’d been in his city over seven years, long before the Franco Prussian War. No exit stamps; she’d remained in Paris during the Siege and the Commune, unless she fled to the country like the rest of her lot.

Why was he dredging up these details now? He was halfway home and must get the dead countess off his mind. Her pocketbook contained several large bills and some coins, over six-hundred francs, an enormous amount for a woman of any class to be carrying in Paris. In her purse were a small photograph of a man about thirty-five or forty, the approximate age of the victim, and a carte de visite of an older gentleman, an uncle or father, or rich lover. Both the photo and the cdv bore the stamp of a studio in Oltramari, Sicily. When questioned, her husband had been polite. It figured: he was the one with the title. He’d been attired like a nobleman, and his French was impressive. Valois hated to detain him, but he had to have someone to question and the cafe owner was immediate in his identification of the man as her frequent companion.

“Hello, Monsieur l’Inspecteur! Valois, isn’t it? My neighbor?”

“Oh, so sorry. Forgive me, Madame Hugo, I didn’t see you. And your little dog.”

“You were preoccupied, dear sir. Well, of course, the weight of all Paris is on your shoulders. You, a principal inspector and me, a poor little old woman, not worth your time. No, indeed.”

Not so little, that one. She looked like a stuffed goose newly arrived from Brittany. He doffed his hat and made his apologies again, complimented her on the rosiness of her complexion, and bent to pet the animal, cursing himself for dreaming again. He touched his hat to the old witch and continued on his way.

At first the death of the mysterious woman in the Rue Cassette had seemed like a suicide, the pistol, a double-barreled Derringer recently used, common enough, found in her left hand. “We get them often in this neighborhood, you’d be surprised,” the sergent de ville told him. Valois himself believed at first that the wound had been self-inflicted, the gun would have fit easily in the bag she carried. But the autopsy proved otherwise.

At approximately six in the morning on Thursday, April 16, the coroner on duty performed his examination. Unheard of so soon after the murder, but done quickly at the request of the family, milliners of high standing in the city. After all, she was a countess and a foreigner. Best to get her off his plate. There’d be more special handling of the case, delicate because of the nationality of the victim, and the sooner he had his facts, the better. So he’d prevailed upon the good doctor to make haste. “Much obliged, dear man, you see, the deceased, is foreign royalty.” Dr. Melange issued his report that afternoon, concluding that the victim sustained a fatal wound to the left side of her head. The bullet, deflected by bone and skin and blood, exited into the oral cavity where it lodged in the left side of the tongue. The doctor had extracted the metal and held it in his hand, showing it to Valois. Time of death was fixed at between one and three that morning, according to the state of rigor described by the policeman when he found the body and the contents of the victim’s stomach.

But an examination of bone spurs in the deceased’s fingers indicated that she had been right-handed. The pistol had been placed by the killer or his accomplice in the victim’s left hand in order to feign suicide. In short, Elena Loffredo had been murdered. Of that, Dr. Melange was certain. And most probably murdered by someone she knew, although it was not inconceivable that an unknown assailant could have surprised her. Because of the short barrel, the gunman had to have been standing close to the countess.

They’d canvassed the area. Two witnesses said they’d seen a man answering Loffredo’s description bending over the body. It could not have been easier. This was a crime of passion committed by a cuckolded husband. And so Valois had relaxed, forgotten the discrepancies that bothered him initially, and arrested the husband. All that remained was identification of the body by a close relative or friend. Madame de Masson, the countess’s aunt, had obliged, fussing and complaining during what was for her a distasteful ordeal. The woman made clear her antipathy for her niece, saying Elena’s wanton ways had long ago predicted her abrupt and violent demise. She’d taken one look at the face and declared the body to be that of her niece.

He stroked his mustache and continued down the street, now a few blocks from home, hoping Francoise would be pleased to see him arrive early for once. He was a dedicated servant of France, a principal inspector in the largest prefecture of all, rising up through the ranks of his colleagues these past fifteen years by diligence and thoroughness. Cleverness, too. He was assigned to the left bank in the busiest city in France, the most important city in Europe, and working for the most innovative branch of detection the world had ever known, La Surete Nationale.

But the arrival of the Sicilian detective, or sleuth, or whatever she called herself, only spelled trouble for his career, and he was not about to help her. Not now, at any rate. He knew his concern with the case was not acceptable behavior. Worse, his preoccupation with the Sicilian matter might be blinding him to the truth, although he doubted it, and yet he could not help himself. He was in its thrall, and he feared it might ruin him, especially if there was no quick confession by the husband. He would have issue orders for a more intense form of interrogation.

Valois opened his gate, loosened his cravat, and stepped inside. The Valois family lived in one of the few private homes in the area untouched by Haussmann’s design, a stone house with an attached lot that his wife had made into one of the most beautiful gardens in the arrondissement. He made his way to the back where he knew he’d find Francoise. Sure enough, she was weeding a bed of spring flowers next to the old apple tree his father had planted.

His luck had been extreme, meeting, wooing, winning this woman, his wife for close to thirteen years. They met when he was at the Sorbonne, enrolled in the Advanced Latin course and she was sent to tutor him, having been privately schooled by one of the greatest class of French scholars, a femme savante. He’d admired Francoise’s grace, her generosity, her mind, her fire. He’d never considered another woman, and after a suitable courtship, they were married.

She looked up at him and smiled. “You’re troubled, Alphonse. Don’t tell me why, I’d be bored to tears,” she said. Her face was lightly tanned, her blue-violet eyes penetrating, her forehead high and filled with wisdom, lines forged and refined by generations of Northern European waters. “I’m going to sit in the garden and admire my handiwork while you wait on me. I’ll have a tisane, please, a little sugar but no lemon, perhaps a spot of cream and a few of the madeleines my mother brought us yesterday. Let the domestic help, but do most of the work yourself to show her your true nature.”

“Where is Charlus?”

“Inside doing his homework and waiting to kiss his father. Don’t distract him for too long. And don’t touch the pate — the Clermonts are coming for dinner.”

An innovator, his Francoise, who had a fresh way of viewing life. Not that she wasn’t like him, the result of upper class coupling. Like him, born and raised in Paris, educated by the best.

As he waited for the tea steeping in a porcelain pot, the difficulties of the case seemed barely visible, like the smoke from a locomotive disappearing into the Pyrenees. But he tried to hold onto his problem so that after their refreshment, he could explain it and with his wife’s unsurpassed ability to discern, discover the proper course of action to follow.

During the Siege and the Commune, they could have fled with their son, then a toddler, to their estate in the south of France, but chose instead to remain. “Good for your career,” she’d assured him. And they had prevailed, thanks to her brains and tenacity. One picture of that hungry time remained in his mind, that of Francoise twisting the mane of a rotund neighbor, the two of them fighting for the last scrap of horse flesh while the butcher and half the neighborhood looked on. She’d returned, unaware that he’d seen the altercation. Graceful, unperturbed, not a blonde hair was out of place but coiled into a perfect bun on top of her head, she had hummed while the meat sizzled in the pan.

When he returned with the tea tray, she said, “I’m listening.”

So he told her about the body in the street, the foulness of it, the pistol placed in the dead hand, the reticule stuffed with francs and identity papers of an aristocrat, the husband imprisoned but not talking, the Sicilian sleuth sent by the countess’s grieving father, a tradesman of some note in Paris.

“And now I find that the photos of the dead woman have gone missing from my desk, and the Sicilian detective wants to see them and asks to see other evidence as well.”

Unruffled, she considered for some moments. “What seemed at first a sordid affair of street people is now something more, perhaps a cover-up. You must walk a taut rope. Be careful, I’ve heard of this countess. A debauched woman, she comes from a wealthy family, influential milliners since the thirteenth century. Their presence in Paris is considerable. But you must not make one small incident into an international affair.”

“What could the Italian government do?”

“The Italian ambassador to France, Count Constantine Nigra helped the empress of Austria escape Paris during the Siege. The present government thinks highly of him. He could cause you real harm. I suggest you work with this Florio woman. The theft of the photos is the pretext for your change of heart. Help her. Show her the evidence she wishes to see, but keep a close watch. Let her make the mistakes.”

Francoise scared him sometimes, but he was a sparkling host that evening and slept through the night.

Chapter 12: What Carmela Discovers

Carmela, Tessa, and the maid waited outside the exhibit for Teo and Arcangelo. They were about to leave when they saw the two running toward them.

“If we had gone, could you have found your way to the hotel?” Carmela asked.

They nodded.

“That may be, but we must all stay together.” It was the first time Gesuzza had spoken, and Carmela was surprised at the chilling effect of her words. She was right, of course. The city and the language were new to all of them. They must stay together.

“Across the street,” Arcangelo began, breathing hard. “Two men.”

“I suggest that we walk to the Tuileries across from the hotel and sit,” Carmela said. “The day is lovely, and we could all use a rest. When we’ve recovered, you can tell me what you’ve discovered.”

“Not much,” Arcangelo began again, after he had regained his breath. They continued walking in the direction of the Tuileries.

“The two men we saw in Marseille stopped across the street from us.”

“On the Boulevard des Capucines?” she asked.

Arcangelo nodded. “They pretended to look in the shop windows. They sauntered up and down the sidewalk, went inside a cafe, but left soon enough. When we started toward them, they ran, so we followed.”

“And?”

“Not bright, those two.”

Carmela shook her head. “They may be very bright. Undoubtedly this is their first time in Paris and they seem to get around without much trouble.”

“Maybe they wanted to be followed,” Tessa suggested.

They stopped discussing the men while they strode down the Rue de la Paix, the four of them waiting while Carmela stared at the hats displayed in the windows of Busacca et Fils. She loved hats, loved to design them for herself, loved to look at them in shop windows, on women who paraded them in the streets. She closed her eyes and imagined she saw a sea of hats, each one unique, each one designed by her.

With crowds of other tourists, they admired the Place Vendome and crossed into the Jardin des Tuileries where they sat around an ornamental pool. They were silent for a time as they watched young children launch toy sailing boats into the shallow water.

She focused on the people enjoying their park, pedestrians walking fast, friends gathered together and laughing their words into the air, fashionable men escorting women with parasols, young girls spinning tops, boys tossing jacks and chasing hoops, the old strolling softly. She admired their grace and style, the smartness of their clothes. To her, all Parisians seemed in high spirits and free from care, unlike the people in her city. If Giulia could find a job here, why couldn’t she? She’d bring her child here, raise him in a proper country. She let the sun play on her face, dreaming of a better day.

Gesuzza sat, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed, her thoughts unknowable.

“Finish telling us about the men,” Carmela said.

Teo wet his lips. “We followed them into an alley that kept getting narrower. Finally we cornered them between two buildings.”

“Brave but foolhardy, you could have been killed,” Carmela said.

“We asked again why they were watching us and they said it was to ensure our safety.”

“The same thing they said in Marseille,” Carmela said.

“But this time, I think I recognized one of the men, the one Arcangelo hit with his slingshot. I saw him in the piazza at home or in Boffo’s restaurant, one of those,” Teo said. “I think the guy might have been collecting from Boffo, because now that I remember it, Boffo was pouring coins into his palm and puffing his cheeks in and out, the way he does when he’s unhappy.”

“So they’re working for the don?” Carmela asked.

“Here comes la signura,” Gesuzza said. She waved Rosa over to where they were sitting and gave her the double kiss.

After the others had gone to the Jardin des Plantes, Carmela, Rosa, and Serafina sat in Serafina’s room. Carmela told them about the exhibit and about meeting Berthe Morisot and Victorine Meurent, what they’d said about Elena, her tantrum in the Place St. Sulpice, and about the man who accompanied her to the opening.

“Their impressions of Elena are the same as ours. She fools only herself. But I find it hard to believe that neither woman had heard of Elena’s death.”

Serafina looked at Rosa. “Go on.”

“They saw her Wednesday at the vernissage and also Thursday evening at the opening with her new lover, and they believe she’ll visit the exhibit again before it closes. She’s been a staunch supporter of these artists.”

“Did you tell them she was murdered?”

Carmela shook her head. “I wasn’t there to give out information. I was there to get information.”

Serafina smiled. “Right. Besides, we don’t know for sure that Elena’s dead. We only know what others tell us.”

The madam rolled her eyes.

“Tell me about going to Busacca’s store,” Carmela said. “I’m familiar with the one in Palermo, and we passed his shop on the Rue de la Paix. I love his hats-they’re such intriguing statements.”

Serafina studied her daughter. “As a child you created your own. Had to wear one all the time. You must visit all his stores in Paris.” She gave Busacca’s card to her. “Present this. They’ll design one for you.”

Carmela examined it. “Here all the women wear them. Not so at home.”

“We wear them when it’s cool enough,” Rosa said. “Imagine wearing a hat in June in Oltramari.”

Just then there was a knock on the door.

“A package for you, Madame.” The bellboy handed Serafina a hatbox.

“Where’s mine?” Rosa asked.

“So sorry, Madame, I did not know you were here.” He smiled and handed her a hatbox.

“Try them on!”

Elena was forgotten while they dealt with hats, Carmela supervising and showing Rosa and Serafina how they should wear them.

“Wonderful! The color suits you, Mama.”

“Do you think so?” Serafina turned from the glass and faced her daughter.

“No angle it more, like this.” Carmela reached up and adjusted the hat, playing with the angle. “Something’s wrong. The feathers are wrong, I think.” She fussed with them a bit. “Try it now.”

“Perfect,” Serafina said.

“Made of felt for cool weather,” Carmela said. “Soon you’ll need a lighter fabric.”

“If this investigation goes on any longer, we’ll need to send for our summer wardrobe,” the madam said.

Serafina winked at her daughter. “If it does, you can design me a hat for spring.”

Carmela’s face colored and she teared up. “I hope the investigation goes on and on. I don’t want to go home. Here, I’m happy. Here, I can be somebody.”

They were silent a moment, Serafina trying not to let her daughter’s words sting. Then she told Carmela of their meeting with Madame de Masson and with the honorable Leon Renault, prefect of police.

“A charming man,” Rosa said, taking off her hat and carefully laying it back in its box. She closed the lid and tied it. “But uncooperative.”

“So I’m afraid our day was less fruitful than yours, except for our visit to Busacca et Fils,” Serafina said, “where we learned that Sophie de Masson is losing her eyesight.”

“How could she have identified the dead woman as her niece?” Carmela asked.

Serafina shrugged. “The more I hear, the more mysterious Elena’s death seems to me. I’m beginning to believe she’s not dead at all.”

Carmela shook her head. “Hard to believe.”

“Perhaps it’s wishful thinking on my part,” Serafina said.

“Nonsense. Why would you wish Elena alive?” Rosa asked. She picked at a thread on her sleeve.

“Unfortunately, Loffredo is in prison, charged with murdering his wife. He may hang for her death and she may not even be dead.” Without realizing it, Serafina had begun to pace the room.

“Why is he charged with murdering Elena?” Carmela asked, a hand to her throat.

Serafina stopped. “Valois said a cafe owner or some such person identified him as the man he saw with Elena that night.”

“Where?”

“In his cafe, of course, right before she was murdered.”

Carmela shook her head. “But a few hours earlier, she was with another man at the opening.”

“What difference does that make?” Rosa asked. “Elena plays by her own rules. She’s not above being with one man one minute and another man the next. She’s nothing more than a cocotte, and not a very nice one, either.”

Carmela fished in her reticule and brought out a slip of paper. “Etienne Gaston. That’s the man’s name. He signed the exhibit’s guest book underneath Elena’s name.”

“Her lover?”

“According to the women at the exhibit. Here’s his address.”

“What did they say he looked like?”

“He’s tall, thin, scholarly, not their type.”

Serafina began to range about the room again.

“Walking around like a madwoman will do nothing,” Rosa said. “Best to put your mind to a plan.”

“You’re right.” She got out her notebook and began scribbling, scratching out, writing something else and scratching that out as well. She couldn’t stop. It was as if a demon controlled her actions.

Rosa threw up her hands and Carmela looked at her watch, stifling a yawn. In a moment, Serafina saw Rosa looking out the window and Carmela regarding herself in the glass, picking up a soft pillow and arranging it on her head and laughing.

Serafina smiled at her daughter. Her mood had passed, and she began to write in earnest.

“What about images of the dead woman?” Carmela asked. “The French are such great photographers, even in such little light as there must have been at the murder scene, surely they took photos of the dead woman’s face. They love to show them in their magazines. They don’t cringe from such horrors. Take the Paris morgue, for instance.”

“Ghoulish, if you ask me,” Rosa said. “Of course, all we need to do in Oltramari if we crave a horror show is to look out the window.”

Serafina nodded. “The inspector offered to show the photographs to us, surprised that we wanted to see them. He reminded us two or three times of their gruesomeness, and when we insisted on looking at them, he couldn’t find them.”

“Strange,” Carmela said.

“Claims he’d misplaced them and promised to have them in hand soon. We insisted on meeting him tomorrow morning at nine in his office.” She stared out the window, lost. “So the most important thing we learned today was not what was seen, but what was not seen; not what was shown, but what was not shown, not what was said, but what was not said.”

“She’s gone round the twist,” the madam said.

Serafina got up, looked at Rosa and Carmela, and sat down again. “Let’s take a break while I summarize everything we’ve learned about Elena.”

“You mean we should get lost.”

“I didn’t say that. I’ll feel better after I’ve written out a complete list-what we know, what we don’t know, and how to free Loffredo.”

“Careful, Fina. Freeing Loffredo is not what Busacca is paying you to do. He wants Elena’s killer brought to justice, that’s his commission. He doesn’t give a fig for her husband,” Rosa said. “And you don’t want the inspector to find out that you and Elena’s husband are lovers. It would color everything you do and say from now on. In short, you’d be disregarded. Worse, you’d be shut out of Valois’ investigation. If you want me to request visiting the accused, I will, but you should stay far away from the subject. Have nothing to do with Loffredo as far as Valois is concerned.”

She had to hand it to Rosa. She’d remained calm the whole day, knew enough not to try and handle Valois, and now said just the right words. “You’re right of course. But we need to find a way to get word to him that I’m here and not to worry, that I’ll discover the truth.”

Rosa patted Serafina’s arm. “Leave Loffredo to me. I’ll call on my friends at the Italian embassy.”

“What would I do without you?”

“We’re all tired, and I have an idea,” Rosa said. “The last time I was here, I had a delightful tea at a cafe on the Boulevard des Italiens. The street is filled with them. Cafe Tortoni, I believe was the name, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll go to whichever one looks good to us. And I for one could do with a large latte.”

“But I don’t want the children to miss out. Besides, high tea would spoil their meal. Let’s wait until they return and rest until dinner. Pick a restaurant, any restaurant. In the meantime, I’ll gather my thoughts. Why don’t you order yourself a treat from one of those cute little bellboys you flirt with all the time, or better yet, take a turn at one of the cafes in the hotel.”

Chapter 13: A Visit to the Sixth Arrondissement

Serafina was surprised Elena’s friends had not heard of her demise, but perhaps they knew something Serafina didn’t. Not yet, at any rate. Since her meeting with Sophie de Masson, she began to doubt the death of Elena. Did she have enough evidence to request exhumation of the body? It would depend on the photographs of the dead woman. If the images bore no resemblance to the contessa, Valois would have to reopen the case.

She ran a hand through her hair. Not yet six o’clock, fifteen long hours until their meeting with the inspector and three hours until dinner. Time enough for acting.

She stopped. How did she expect to solve the mystery when she hadn’t seen the spot where they’d found the body?

Pulling out her map, she studied it. It took her a while to locate the Rue Cassette. It was on the left bank, her favorite side of the river. She’d go to the scene of the crime. No need to tell Rosa or Carmela-she’d be back before they realized she was gone. Grabbing a light cape and reticule, and throwing a comb through her snarls, she was about to go out when she remembered the dratted hat. But a head covering had a point, especially in the chill of an April evening in Paris. She plunked it on her head and flew down the stairs, asking for a cab to the Luxembourg Gardens. A man in livery driving a small opera bus pulled by a roan horse drew up, and the doorman helped her in.

The streets were noisy. Parisians who crossed in front of carriages and carters seemed happy to be going home. Plane trees lined the boulevards, and the sky was a wash of cerulean as the driver took the Pont Royal to the Rue du Bac. Serafina listened to the clop of hooves. They turned onto the Rue Jacob filled with memories of a delicious slip she’d had in a small hotel over twenty years ago. It struck her that there was a sense of life here, an unforgettable style of color, sound, and line that merged to create an energy she no longer felt at home. Oh, to be young again and in Paris. As she watched university students gather, she warmed to the thought of adventure. But unfortunately, she had mystery on the mind.

They clopped down the Rue Bonaparte past St. Sulpice and she heard the unmistakable sounds of an organ, perhaps Charles-Marie Widor practicing for a concert. She stared at the scene fronting the church and imagined a crowd gathered around Elena witnessing one of her mad moments.

The driver stopped across from the entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens and said he’d wait for her.

With the map in her hand, she walked slowly up the Rue de Vaugirard. It was a long street and she hoped she wasn’t too far from her destination. When she found herself facing the round backside of St. Sulpice again, she realized she’d walked in the wrong direction. So she headed back, her eyes glued to her map, and bumped into a policeman who hung onto her shoulders to prevent her from falling.

He tipped his cap and smiled. “Pardon, Madame, let me help you. You’re lost.”

“Too kind.” A Parisian policeman, how handsome. What do they call them? A sergent de ville, he told her. She loved his tall kepis and said so. “I search for the Rue Cassette. I’m sure it’s nearby.”

“Visiting someone?” he asked as he led the way.

“Not exactly. I investigate the death of a woman whose body was found on that street last week.”

“Lucky for you, I’m the one who found the body.” He shook his head. “Terrible, one side of her face blown apart.”

“Then I’m doubly fortunate to have found you.”

“Some claim she was a countess from Sicily.” The policeman shook his head. “That’s what the inspector said. Valois. I called him myself, woke him up from his sleep, poor man. He was none too happy either, I can tell you. Can’t blame the fellow. But the woman, her clothes, mon dieu, she wore the garb of a streetwalker, not draped like a lady, I don’t mind saying it.”

“In this neighborhood?”

He gave her a Gallic shrug. “Those kind are all over, especially at that time of night. Sometimes you see them here in the early evening, too. There are some cafes on the Rue de Vaugirard that attract these people.”

“Like the Cafe Odile?”

He nodded.

Serafina wondered how to ask her next question. “They claim she may have been from the upper classes but enjoying herself by doing-what’s the word in French? In Italian it’s not used in mixed company.”

“No need to say it, Madame, I know what you mean. But this woman had dirt ground into her. It was underneath her fingernails and in her hair. Her hands were callused. No, this woman was not from the nobility. She was working the streets.”

“Curious the press didn’t cover it.”

He shrugged. “Why would they? Oh, they sniffed around, all right. Those journalists can smell a story before it happens. But they knew this death was not newsworthy, so they disappeared. It was the death of a woman already bitten by life, not a fresh saucy thing or someone known by the people. A pickpocket or a lady of the night, probably both. A jailbird, perhaps. But no matter, she’d fallen on hard times. They work the system, you know. They violate the health laws and must be pulled in. They’re out for a while until they’re hauled in again. In and out.”

“Would you show me where you found the body?”

They turned into a much smaller street. The Rue Cassette seemed ghostly, little more than a country lane, although it was cobbled and in excellent condition, smooth and clean. No garbage, so different from home. It was bounded on both sides by a limestone wall. The street had no gas lamps, however, and the light from the evening sky was beginning to fade. She hugged her cape feeling cold and empty in the gloaming as she followed the sergent de ville.

Presently the policeman stopped and pointed to a spot on the ground a few meters ahead, steps away from a large alcove and door. There was a dry cleaning establishment on the opposite side of the street several meters away, but no other shops, just a few gates punched into the wall on either side, leading to what looked like the courtyards of private apartments. Serafina stood still and staring at the spot. She saw the twisted body of the woman. The vision was so intense, it was as if she were here before them, her head resting to one side on the stones, a battered, broken body.

She was filled with the presence of death and foreboding. She tried to imagine what life must have been like for the dead woman; she tried to fathom what it must have been like for this young policeman to come upon a body, cold, grotesque, the street narrow and dark. Perhaps early morning mist had been rising from the ground. Even now she could feel the dankness of the place. The stone walls closed in on her. She struggled for air and realized she’d been holding her breath. Her head throbbed and her toes hurt from the cold. She wished she had worn a heavier cape, a long one like the policeman wore.

“Where does this door lead?”

“It’s the back end of an abbey.”

Serafina read the numbers-22, Rue Cassette. She looked more closely, intent on finding something on the ground left by the body or forgotten by the killer, a scrap of paper, a handkerchief, anything, but the stones had been picked clean.

She was beginning to get a feel for this murdered woman, someone having to scratch to make a living. No, if she were true to her intuition, Serafina could now affirm that the dead woman was a stranger, not Elena. Now her task was to convince others.

“How was she clothed?”

“As I said, in the garment of a streetwalker. There was dirt under her fingernails, caked behind her ear on one side of the face, a ring of dirt in back of her neck.”

“But she had a reticule.”

He nodded. “Made of expensive cloth with a gold clasp and chain. Not the bag of a woman of the night.”

“Perhaps she stole the purse?”

“Looked like it to me.”

“Was there money inside?”

“Six-hundred francs in notes and a few coins, a fortune by my reckoning.”

“Who do you think she was and why did she have that purse?”

“I’ve told you. But no one asks my opinion, Madame. You don’t want to know what I think. I’m a young policeman, on the force less than a year.”

“But I do. I care. And not because you’re helping me tremendously. No, I want to hear what you have to say because you were the first to see the body.”

“I think I might have seen her in this neighborhood before, begging, laughing, drunk, flirting with men or lurking in the side streets hoping for a…”

“A customer?”

“Yes. I might have arrested her once, along with a few others, up to no good, cuffed them all for theft, for leaving the Cafe Odile with purses and capes and fancy hats that weren’t theirs. Boastful and laughing. Slurring and swaying. Beasts really, at least for that moment. When you see men and women like that, less than human, you close your eyes and try to imagine them as sweet suckling babes. Then you take a little more care with them instead of shoving them into a wagon and dumping them into a holding cell. Next morning, it’ll be a different story for them. They’ll be sober and quiet, stinking of cheap wine and bodily waste. Life must be a hell for them.” He stopped and considered something inside himself. “No, I think she took that purse and for whatever reason, maybe even because she took it, she was killed.”

“But she wasn’t killed for the money. Six-hundred francs remained in the purse.”

“There are many reasons to kill, Madame. Her type have more reasons to kill than you and I can dream up together in a lifetime, and kill they do. Perhaps with little thought beforehand, or perhaps the killing was a long time brewing-a fantasy of their sodden brains.”

“Would her companions kill her with a derringer and feign suicide?”

“Might. Don’t forget, we try to fathom, but not with their besotted minds. They’ve become jackals.”

Serafina was silent, taking in the policeman’s words. She wished Carmela was here. She’d introduce them.

“Are you married?”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. You seem so wise for your years. I have unmarried daughters and I’d like you for a son-in-law.”

He blushed and Serafina knew she’d overstepped the mark. “Forgive me. I meant that as a compliment.”

He touched his cap and smiled.

“The body was identified as a contessa, the one whose passport was in the reticule. Identified by none other than the woman’s aunt. What do you think of that?”

“The aunt must be infirm of mind or going blind.”

She paused for a moment before asking, “No one’s reported a missing purse?”

“I wouldn’t know that, Madame.”

Serafina asked herself what she would have done if her reticule had been snatched. “Where’s the nearest gendarmerie?”

“This way, turn onto the Rue de Tournon. On your left. Can’t miss it.”

“And one more question if I might.”

“Of course, Madame.”

“Could you point me to the Cafe Odile?”

He led her to a corner cafe with a red awning and the word, Odile, written in white script. “But you don’t want to go inside, Madame.” He touched his cap and walked off into the early evening.

Before she ventured into the cafe, she located her driver, gave him a few coins, and he agreed to wait for her.

Serafina stomped into the Cafe Odile. Clouds of yellow smoke hung in the air and she looked around the crowded room, dimly lit by a few gas lamps. There were several people seated at small tables drinking an opaque liquid, a small throng of noisy customers in the back, and a crowd around the zinc bar. She stood at the door for some time until her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Then she asked the bartender if she could speak with the owner.

He stepped out from behind the counter. “Help you?” He was a tall man with a deflated balloon for a stomach that rolled over his apron. His complexion was a pasty pink.

She showed him her identification card and told him she was investigating the murder of a woman in Rue Cassette.

“Not the same one as last week? Old news.” He coughed.

She nodded. Pulling out a photo of Loffredo, she asked him if he recognized the man.

He took it and walked to the window. He squinted at the picture. After a moment he said, “Never seen him before.”

“The woman who was killed in the Rue Cassette, was she a customer?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Answer the question.”

He shrugged. “Seen her in here from time to time. A regular, I’d guess you’d say. “

“And this photo, is it of the man you saw her with?”

“Like I said, I never seen him before.”

“Then why did you tell the police you had?”

He ran a thumb over his mustache, silent, hugging a cork-lined tray to his middle, his face now mottled, his eyes cast down.

“This is a photograph of the man you told the police was the companion of the woman who was shot. Would you like to see it again?”

He coughed.

“Is that a yes or no?”

He wiped his face with a towel.

“Are you having second thoughts about your identification of him? You’ll have to testify in court and trust me, the man’s attorney will delight in making you look like a fool unless you’re absolutely sure you saw him.”

“Didn’t say I’d have to testify. Light’s dim here. Hard to tell one face from another.”

“When asked shortly after the murder, why were you so sure?”

He looked at her like she’d been born on the moon.

Serafina felt heat rise up her neck and flood her cheeks. “You were paid, weren’t you? You were paid by someone to recognize this man as Elena’s companion.”

Water beaded on his forehead. “Now I never said-”

“Who paid you?”

He shook his head and she realized she’d be there forever. She looked at her watch pin.

“No matter. A man can change his mind,” she said. “Give me pen and paper.” She sat down and wrote an account of her interview with him. Handing it back to him, she said, “Just sign this. It says you’ve thought about it, and you couldn’t swear under oath that the man you identified was in fact with Elena that night. We’ll forget any mention of bribe.”

Hunched over the zinc and rimmed with light from the streetlamp, he coughed into a handkerchief and looked at the piece of paper, turning it over, swiping at his forehead, and finally signing it.

“Like I said, I didn’t know they’d make me swear to it. Couldn’t say for sure that he’s Elena’s man. Tall, angular, all right, but not the one in that photo.”

But before she paid a call to the gendarmes, she wanted to spend more time on the Rue Cassette. One or two gates were open and Serafina peeked in at courtyards and gardens, one with a two-wheeled contraption leaning against a tree. She stopped in front of the dry cleaners, intrigued by the gown in the window.

Peering inside, she saw a light on in the back of the store so she turned the handle, but it was locked. Looking inside, Serafina saw a few garments on hangers toward the front, but what drew her into the shop was the lovely dress on a mannequin in the window, a light green watered silk like the one Carmela described Elena as having worn to the exhibit on its opening night. Odd that it would be in a shop on the street where the murdered woman’s body was found.

Serafina heard a pounding in her ears as she rapped on the door. No answer. She looked left and right, knocked again as loudly as she could and rubbed her knuckles. In a moment, a rather broad-shouldered woman lumbered into view.

Clothed in homespun and wearing a long blue apron, her sleeves rolled and a scarf tied around her head, she had a pleasant round face.

“Coming to pick up clothes, Madame?”

“Not exactly. I’m interested to learn how that dress came to be hanging in your window. I believe it’s a garment belonging to a friend, and I’ve spent the day trying to find her. I’m new to the city, as you might have guessed.” Serafina felt her eyes stinging and her throat dry from whatever substance they used in the cleaning process, and she wondered how this woman could stand breathing it all day.

“Italian?”

Serafina smiled.

“Thought so. You can tell by the R’s, at least that’s how I tell. We swallow the R’s and you roll them around your tongue,” she said. “First time here?”

Serafina told her she’d been to Paris once before, studying midwifery several years ago, but she hadn’t been back in over twenty years.

“In that case, you speak French very well.” All the while the woman spoke, she was peering into her ledger, running a finger down each page. When she found what she was looking for, she told Serafina that the garment was brought in by a M. Gaston last Thursday and that he’d promised to pick it up tomorrow. That’s why we’ve hung it in the window, showcasing it, you might say. Difficult one to clean.”

“He passes by here often?”

She nodded. “Good customer. Fastidious man. Stained pretty bad and unfortunately it was on the front of the jacket. We had to work hard on it, especially since the fabric’s so delicate, quilted and all, and a pure gold thread runs through it.”

Serafina looked at the jacket and shook her head. “I don’t see any discoloration. What made it?”

“Hard to say.” She shrugged. “Some kind of vegetable, or perhaps just soapy water. That would cause the mark. We worked on it hard, and in the end there was no trace of it, as you say. If it had been wine or blood, well… Take a good look, we’re proud of our work.” She brought the dress over to the counter and showed Serafina, touching it with fingers that were tender, gentle although they were red and swollen from years of work and from whatever substance was used to dry clean clothes. “Made an awful mess, darker than the cloth, but see, no trace of it anymore, not even on the silk underside.”

Serafina left the store and took great gulps of fresh air. She examined her watch pin, glad that she’d paid her driver to wait because she wanted to pay a surprise visit to Elena’s current lover. Unfolding her map as she walked back to Rue de Vaugirard, she stopped underneath the nearest streetlamp and pinpointed the Rue d’Assas. It took her a only a few minutes to find number 23, a narrow but tall building next door to a monastery.

A short butler in fussy garb answered her knock and escorted her to the visitor’s parlor after she asked to speak with Monsieur Etienne Gaston.

“I’ll see if he’s receiving.”

“Tell him I’m a friend of Elena Loffredo.”

The man’s face blanched. “One moment.” He flounced out of the room.

She waited more than a few moments and had a chance to look around, admiring the floor to ceiling books in the receiving room. An oriental carpet lay on the parquet floor and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. In the bay window stood a black walnut table with carved legs, the top covered with a damask cloth underneath a lamp with a fringed shade. A wooden box sat next to it with Gaston’s name engraved on a brass plaque. No dust anywhere, and she suspected that everything was in its place and for show. Even the books looked as if they were arranged by size. In one corner was a harpsichord and Serafina imagined Maria running to it. Suddenly the room shifted and she had trouble breathing. She missed home.

To pass the time, she walked over to the instrument. The casing was covered with an elaborate inlay. Absentmindedly, she touched the wood and was standing next to it, fingering the keys when Gaston entered the room.

“Do you play?” he asked. Before she could reply, he walked quickly to her, a thin man, taller than Loffredo, and she held out her hand. His lips brushed it lightly. “Etienne Gaston.”

“My youngest daughter plays, a prodigy. Unfortunately she couldn’t travel with us on this visit.”

“A pity. And you are?”

The man didn’t offer her a seat, so she took one after handing him her card. “I’m a friend of Elena Loffredo. And you are lovers.”

The man blushed but did not deny it. “A brash manner of speaking, you’re obviously not from France, Madame.”

“I’ve traveled from Oltramari, Elena’s hometown. I’ve been commissioned to investigate her… disappearance.”

He pursed his lips, said nothing. Could it be that like the rest of her friends, he hadn’t heard of her death?

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I’d have to consult my calendar.”

Serafina decided to say nothing and waited for him to speak. Silence, she found worked wonders. In time Gaston squirmed. He rubbed his chin, patted the pockets of his smoking jacket, a very interesting garment, velvet, perhaps indigo, hard to see in the dim light of the room. “Excuse me while I consult my appointment book.”

She bit her tongue instead of making a remark and wished she’d taken Rosa along, imagining how the madam would handle him. She took the plunge. “Oh, how silly of me not to see it before this, but I’ve just noticed your jacket, what an exquisite garment. No wonder Elena is so taken with you.”

The man smiled. “Do you think so? It was a gift from my mother some years ago.”

“And looks so well on you. For a scholar, you maintain yourself very well. Some men begin to look like the chairs they sit in, and while I’m sure you sit most of the day reading and writing and so forth, yet you have the physique of a man who works in the open air, without his roughness of course.”

“Such a nice compliment.”

“Not so, I assure you.”

He looked at her card. “Madame Florio, I have just-”

“I don’t wish to take up much of your time. I know you must be so busy preparing your talks and reading and whatever else it is you scholars do. Just help me with the answers to one or two questions, that’s all, I beg you.” She smiled, batted her lashes, wishing she’d rouged her face.

“Hmm, the last time I saw Elena. You know her well? She can be quite beguiling. Quite.”

“Surprising, a free spirit, I’d call her,” Serafina said. “In many ways unique. We’ve known each other since we were very young.”

He smiled. “Then you’ve known each other a very long time.”

She betrayed nothing, deserved it, perhaps, but she kept a quiet face.

“She takes me to interesting places and last week was no exception,” he said. “We went to… how to describe it. We attended an opening.”

“Sponsored by the Salon?”

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. No, unfortunately, an exhibit of twenty-five or thirty painters, similar in style and temperament, it seemed. Hundreds of the things hung in Felix Nadar’s studio. He lent it to them for the occasion. Lighting not so good, but they drew a large crowd. Many of them are Elena’s friends. She’s taken with them. I found them uninteresting at best, some lacking all ability. However, I went to please her.”

“And that was the last time you saw her?”

“Yes.”

“At the exhibit? You didn’t go to a cafe afterward, perhaps for a drink?”

“As I might have mentioned, I’m quite busy, Madame. Not that you’d be interested, but I’m preparing a paper on the world perception of French thought for the Academy. No, unfortunately, I saw her to a cab and we made an early night of it.”

“On the Boulevard des Capucines?”

“Precisely.”

“So you didn’t notice her in your bed that night? Hard to miss, I should think.

Gaston blanched.

“You see, I happen to know you took the garment she wore that night to the nettoyage a sec on the Rue Cassette. By the way, it’s ready for you to pick up, a lovely frock, hanging in the window. They’ve done a brilliant job. The stain is gone, totally gone.”

He stared at her, the light in his eyes extinguished. A succession of emotions brushed over his face-exasperation, anger, fear, amusement.

“Not difficult to see why you and Elena are friends. You’ve caught me out, good work. I admire that.” He stood, walked back and forth and faced her. “Elena is my temptation. I cannot do without her.”

She was silent for a while, letting the man have his emotion, watching him sink back into the chair.

“Too much, she is too much at times. Her friends are… no one I’d want to associate with. The exhibit, how can I put it, the work of beginners. And she’s so taken with them. Sometimes she can be so mean, so unthinking.”

Serafina thought he was about to cry and compassion for the man overtook her.

He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. “One minute she tells me we’re through, that she can’t stand me, and the next she tells me she’s going to have my child. I don’t understand her. I proposed to her Thursday night after she told me about the child, but she laughed at me. She said after two months or so of marriage, I’d bore her.”

“And is that why you killed her?”

Startled, he stared at her. “I’d never touch Elena, except in tenderness. Never.” He stood and paced the floor some more.

She could hear monks chanting next door. “Let’s back up. When did you last see Elena? What hour was it?”

“After the exhibit, we went to the Cafe Odile. It’s around the corner on the Rue de Vaugirard. Not my kind of establishment, but she loved it. We had wine, talked to some of the other patrons, and then we came here. We… spent the night together. Or at least I thought we’d spend the night together, but she left shortly after we made love-right here in this room, if you can believe it. She tore off her dress here and… she was passionate, wild, almost mad. After that, I thought we’d sleep together, in bed. I mean, spend the night together, sighing, touching, sleeping, the way couples do, but she picked up her dress, chastising me for soiling it. She asked if I’d have it cleaned since I was the one who ruined it. I said nothing. We went upstairs, but instead of crawling into bed, she riffled through her closet, choosing a set of clothes and told me goodbye. ‘This is goodbye, Etienne, you boring old thing.’”

He sat and held his head again.

Serafina was silent for a while.

“What clothes did she choose?”

He threw up his hands. “A day dress, a suit, I suppose you’d say.”

“And what time did she leave?”

“I didn’t look at my watch, but it was well after midnight.”

“No one else was here? Forgive me, a stupid question. Did she say where she was going?”

He shook his head, unable to speak, buried his head. The monks were still chanting next door.

“I’m very sorry to admit she is my countrywoman.” Serafina was silent for a while. “Did you hear about the woman shot to death in the Rue Cassette?”

He nodded. “I saw her body lying in the street.”

“Why would you have? She died early in the morning.”

“After Elena left, I became frenzied, and to calm myself, I walked the streets. Walking helps me, you see, something I do when I need to work on a problem. I was aimless that night. I walked along the Seine, in the Luxembourg, sat on a bench, my mind a blank, trying not to think of her, of what I’d done… to my life. As I made my way home, I noticed a commotion in the Rue Cassette. Sergents de ville were there in droves kneeling around a body, a photographer, a doctor, perhaps, an ambulance. I remember the horse was skittish. A crowd was gathering. Not unusual. There are a few cafes that draw a low clientele. I asked someone what had happened. A dead woman, he told me.”

“Did you see her face?”

“Not all of it, she was lying on her side. She looked like a woman of the night.”

“Could it have been Elena?”

“Hardly. Not her height or shape, not at all. Smaller. I bent down and looked. It was a passing glance, but I didn’t recognize her.” Gaston was hugging himself, trying to keep from shaking.

“And no one saw you?”

“They saw me, but would they remember? Hardly. They were watching horror, much in demand. They were drunk with it.”

As she was about to leave, she thought of one more question. “Do you own a gun?”

He looked at her like she’d gone round the twist. “I have a gun, yes. For protection.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course.”

While she waited for Gaston to return, she thought about what he’d told her. At first she disbelieved his version of Elena’s behavior. But the man was suffering, that was apparent.

When he returned, he was still shaking. “I must have misplaced it. I can’t seem to find it anywhere.” He pulled at the sides of his hair.

“Sit down. Tell me about the gun.”

Gaston shrugged. “New. A revolver made in France near Lyon. I bought it from a friend last year.”

“Where do you usually keep it?”

“In a locked drawer in my bed chamber.”

“Was the lock tampered with?”

Gaston shook his head.

Chapter 14: La Maison Doree

How she obtained a reservation no one quite knew except that Serafina saw Rosa engage three of the hotel’s staff in animated conversation at the concierge station. Precisely at nine, a voiture de grande remise pulled up in front of the Hotel du Louvre. The driver helped them into the carriage drawn by a matching pair of grays and drove to La Maison Doree on the Boulevard des Italiens.

They were seated at a large round table in a private cabinet with a view of the main dining room. Arcangelo, his hair slicked and his face washed, sat next to Tessa. Wearing her teal brocade and a sea green velvet choker, she glanced at Teo who sat on her other side, his face buried in the wine list. Carmela, Rosa, and Serafina were dressed in evening gowns, Gesuzza in her finest black bombazine. Waiters swarmed around them as the maitre d’hotel welcomed them to his restaurant, “The finest in all of Paris.” It looked as though every table was taken and the high-ceilinged room blazed with candles.

“May I suggest some simple dishes to start the meal? I recommend the escargots from Burgundy marinated in a delicate white wine, a fresh green bean salad, the first of the season, a foie gras de canard with fig and grape, and-”

Rosa answered the waiter. “Perfect. Bring them. Two of everything. But before you do, bring us champagne while we wait. Veuve Cliquot. And bring a few baguettes or rolls or whatever kind of bread you offer and some pate. These boys are dying of hunger.”

Arcangelo eyed all the forks and spoons on either side of his plate. Serafina told him to start with the outermost fork or spoon and work his way in. A waiter overheard. Dressed like the others in livery with wig and knee breeches, he hiked his nose higher than Serafina thought possible.

After their food arrived, she felt rather than saw the waiters around their table lifting their shoulders, so she asked the maitre d’hotel for more privacy.

They toasted Paris and their hotel. Carmela drank to Busacca et Fils.

While they ordered the main course, Serafina told them of her visit to the Rue Cassette, her fortuitous meeting with the policeman who found the body, the statement she’d wrung from the owner of the Cafe Odile, and her meeting with Etienne Gaston, and his assertion that the dead woman on the Rue Cassette was not Elena.

“Why did the owner of the Cafe Odile lie?” Tessa asked.

“Lucre, my girl.” Rosa turned to Serafina. “Give me the barkeep’s statement. I’ll give it to Valois and get him to spring Loffredo. Remember, you cannot be seen to be in Loffredo’s camp, much less in his bed.”

There was a hush around the table as Tessa, Teo, and Arcangelo looked at one another. Serafina felt her face fill with color.

Each of them had an opinion of Gaston. They were a hung jury: three said he was guilty, three, not guilty, Serafina abstaining.

“I can’t make up my mind about him,” she said.

“What little there is of it tonight,” Rosa added.

When their entrees arrived, Serafina took a bite of her duckling, marveling at the crunch of the skin, the sweet tenderness of the meat. It was cooked to perfection, sizzling on the plate and filled with a bread and orange stuffing. She relished all the different flavors. Perhaps the French relied too much on sauce. Still, she was glad to partake of their cuisine and to share the experience with her daughter and friends.

“Our meeting with Valois is not until nine tomorrow morning and there is one thing we need to explore beforehand, Elena’s apartment.” She sliced a piece of duck and dipped it into a side dish of mashed potatoes.

“How will we do that?” Rosa asked, her mouth full of veal sauteed in apples.

“I’m not sure, but we’ve always managed before this. We’ll find a custodian or some other servant who’ll let us into her apartment. You know how Elena always angers them. It won’t be difficult to get them on our side. We’re sure to find information that we must have.”

Carmela cleared her throat. “Arcangelo and Teo were over there this afternoon.”

“It’s a distance. How did they manage?”

Arcangelo, his cheeks distended with food, looked at her. His eyes reflected candlelight.

Carmela answered for him. “They took le petite ceinture.”

“The train that goes around Paris,” Rosa explained, dabbing her mouth with the linen.

“And what did you see?”

Arcangelo swallowed his food. “A fancy building on a square. Custodian or guard or something, has a station just inside the gate and we talked to him. I said I was Elena’s friend and had important information for her. The custodian told me she was out at the moment.”

“Did he say when she’d be back?”

He shrugged. “He doesn’t expect her back until next week.”

“We ought to be able to talk our way in,” Rosa said.

“If we arrive by seven tomorrow morning, taking this train you speak of, we should be able to finish our business and meet with Valois at nine as planned,” Serafina said.

Rosa nodded.

“Reasonable, but I think we need a better plan for insinuating ourselves into her apartment,” Carmela said.

“Let me worry about that,” Rosa said.

“She plans to grease her way inside,” Serafina said.

“Do you have a better plan?” Rosa broke her bread, spreading it with pate.

Carmela put down her fork. “There might be a way to prove that the body is not that of Elena.” She took a sip of wine. “We need to ask Valois about the coroner’s report, whether or not the victim was with child. According to the women we met at the exhibit today, Elena boasted of her condition.”

“We might learn the name of her midwife from going through her desk,” Serafina said.

The main course was surpassed only by the dessert, a glace au four with mounds of creamy ice and topped in chocolate sauce that drizzled down the side. Even Teo smiled when he saw it.

On the way home Serafina’s corset pinched unmercifully. She gazed out the window but was unaware of time passing until they’d been delivered to their door and Rosa touched her arm, telling her to get out of the carriage.

Chapter 15: A Visit to Elena’s Apartment

Teo licked his lips thinking of Maria’s hands on the keyboard. He thought of their beauty and suppleness. Of her concentration. He wondered how one person could be born with so much talent.

One day she would be his friend again and life between them would be better. After all, she did walk to school with him that one time, so there was hope. He swallowed, remembering the last morning they’d walked together and how she’d talked to him about Brahms and how most people in Oltramari misunderstood his music. “Most people in Oltramari never heard of Brahms,” he’d said. But she hadn’t been listening. A group of her friends had overtaken them. They pointed their fingers at him, calling him moon face and sniggering. After that, Maria refused to walk with him. He forced the memory from his mind.

When he wasn’t working with Carmela, Teo tried to think of the perfect gift he could bring Maria from Paris. If he attended a concert, he could tell her about it. But how would he do that? He’d seen a notice in the Galignani Guide of an organ recital at St. Sulpice and found the church on the map. He’d missed the concert, but perhaps he could find a program lying about in the square. He stared out the window, his hand on the sash about to close it, mesmerized by all the horse-drawn vehicles, the laughter, the streets lit by hundreds of gas lamps.

In the Place du Palais Royal below, he saw a new machine, one he’d never seen at home. Carmela called it a bicycle. Now several men about his age stood on the edge of the square holding the wheeled contraption between them and jostled for a turn to work the pedals. They snorted, full of life, happy, hopeful, like most of the people in this city.

Teo felt a stone lodge in his throat. What chance would he have against all the gentlemen Maria would meet when she began playing in Paris or Berlin or New York? He was an orphan with a moon face from a rusted-out part of the world. He had nothing to his name except a set of knucklebones carved long ago by his father.

Rubbing his hands on his breeches, Teo peered out the window taking one last look at the men and women walking in the square below, dressed in finery so different from his own plain clothes. The bicycle and the young men were gone, but he saw someone he recognized talking to a driver wearing a top hat. Teo watched as the driver helped the woman into a carriage. It was Donna Fina. He hurried down the steps and outside.

After she said goodnight to the others, Serafina found herself restless, unable to ready herself for sleep. She had to get out and walk. They’d be seeing Valois the next day and she must be prepared with as much information as possible. She couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to leave investigating Elena’s apartment until tomorrow-they’d have to rise at four, in less than three hours. What better time to explore than tonight? So she ran outside, hailed a cab, and gave the driver Elena’s address.

The horses clattered over the cobbles, noisy like her stomach. Despite the late hour Parisians were still out enjoying the evening, some with their dogs, but most of them with their lovers walking along the quai, stopping for a heated embrace. At one point the driver halted for congestion, an altercation ahead, perhaps. From the corner of her eye she saw an aging woman of the night trussed up in street garb, frilly red lace, her face artfully painted and pointed toward the stars as she leaned against a lamppost, blowing smoke. When the carriage passed, Serafina watched the woman’s hips swaying suggestively as she moved away, head held high. A moment later, she disappeared. Serafina swore all the women in Paris, even the poorest, had exciting taste, wore the latest style, or made the most of what they had. Except for her. The night was young and so alive. She missed Loffredo.

The carriage stopped in front of a large building on the Rue de Passy facing a quaint square. She paid the fare and asked the driver to wait, but he declined, saying she’d have no trouble hiring another cab and pointing to a line of fiacres on the other side of the Place de Passy. Waving a dismissive hand and holding her skirts, she made her way up the staircase. She knocked and a liveried servant answered the door and showed her inside.

The building’s concierge sat behind his desk reading an ancient copy of Le Figaro. Handing her card to him, she suddenly felt tongue-tied and began to stammer.

“May I help you, Madame?”

“I am here to visit Elena Loffredo.”

Smelling of cheap wine and wearing a threadbare frock coat, the concierge ran a pink hand down a large ledger, shaking his head. In a few moments he looked up at her with fat lips, reminding her of Oltramari’s embalmer.

“A pity, you have just missed her. You see my note here.” He swung the ledger around to show her an illegible scrap near Elena’s name.

Serafina played her card. “But we’d arranged to meet. She expects me now as a matter of fact.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, I see, I’m a few minutes early. Would you mind terribly if I…” she looked around… “too drafty for me in the lobby. In a large building like this there must be many visitors. I’d hate to catch a cold. Evening air, you see. Might I wait for her upstairs in her apartment? We’re old friends. I’m from the same town as she is in Sicily.”

“Unfortunately, Madame, I hate to-”

Serafina slipped some bills underneath the ledger.

The concierge smiled. “Right this way. The countess occupies the two top floors.”

The building had a lift with a grill instead of a door and she was able to see out as they passed the floors. She and the concierge squeezed in together. She listened as they creaked their way up to Elena’s apartment on the top two floors. As they passed one of the lower floors, she looked out and saw the figure of a woman clad in black, doubled over as if in pain, but quickly passing from view. When they reached the top floor, the concierge unlocked Elena’s door and turned on a few of the gas lamps in the hall and parlor.

“I’m on duty for the next thirty minutes, so please ring for me if there’s anything else I may do for you. Otherwise, should you tire before the contessa returns, extinguish the lights and shut the door.”

The rooms in Elena’s apartment were cold, drafty, the grates unused, although there seemed to be… yes… she found a radiator. Like their hotel rooms, the apartments here were heated. She looked at the ceiling, the walls, the furniture. A preponderance of plaster and gilt. Paintings hung in all the rooms, but she didn’t have time or enough light to admire them. Everything seemed expensive and well maintained, although there was a film of dust on the furniture and love seats, grit on the carpets and floor.

The silence was eerie. She walked to the windows that looked out onto the Chateau de la Muette and beyond it, to the Bois de Boulogne. She could understand how Elena would choose to live here, but did not fathom how the concierge could have seen Elena this evening, unless he had been paid to tell visitors that they’d just missed her.

She felt her heart pounding as she entered a smaller room, a ladies’ parlor no doubt. Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the low light, she saw a series of prints on the wall, reproductions of works by a French painter Serafina was familiar with, Jacques-Louis David. She was admiring them when she thought she heard something move. An animal? She waited, listening. Nothing but her imagination. She found gas jets on the walls and after some fumbling, turned on a few jets and saw a desk with a lamp in the corner of the room. On top of it was an appointment book. She turned a few of the pages, but it was unused. After she opened the middle drawer she stopped. There was a definite scratching sound coming from somewhere in back of her. An animal. Concentrating on breathing slowly, she took one step, then another and another. The drapes had not been drawn, and the glow from the street lamps lent the rooms a ghostly light. She made her way through to the dining room and had just entered the kitchen when she heard the scratching noise again.

Hearing the blood thrumming in her ears and hoping she hadn’t heard mice, she looked down and stood still. A sweet looking kitten was lying on the floor next to something else, a bowl. She bent down and stroked its fur and heard the animal purr, almost as loud as her heart was pounding. She lifted bowl and peered inside. It must have contained water. “Poor little thing, mice must be scarce here and you’ve had no water in a while.”

Elena was many things, but she would never starve a kitten. She filled the bowl with water from the slate sink and the thirsty feline slurped and drank.

“Well, we’ll have to do something about you, won’t we? She felt the animal’s bones through its fur, but remembered that she had a job to do before she could care for it.

She walked back to the ladies’ parlor and began riffling through the desk drawer where she found an address book, some envelopes, scraps of paper, and a note pad with writing. She held up the address book and found the same scrawl on every page, addresses written everywhere, scribbled into all the margins and filling all the lines. On the last page was a small calendar. She held the book closer to the lamp, but it was hard to read Elena’s script, so she slipped the book, the envelopes, the wad of paper and notepad into her pocket and began walking through the rest of the rooms, wondering where she’d find the set of stairs leading to the second floor. Hearing a soft tapping she felt a presence, and the kitten pranced into the room, stopping to rub itself against every piece of furniture. Pawing her skirt, the animal looked up with such pleading eyes before he wound himself in between her legs and scratched at her petticoat. Unless Elena suddenly appeared, Serafina would have to find a way to take the mouser with her. She couldn’t leave it to starve to death here. Gesuzza would take care of it until she found a home for the sweet creature. She picked up the kitten and walked into the rear of the house when she heard a loud banging on the door.

Her heart slammed into her throat. The kitten jumped from her arms and took off.

More pounding on the door.

“Help!”

Serafina ran to the front and opened the door.

A maid in black uniform and white apron and cap was doubled over and holding her stomach. Definitely with child. And about to deliver, too, judging by the pool of wet by the woman’s feet. The young woman braced herself on the wall. “Oh… my. Help me, please… I saw you pass by in the lift. I thought you must be Elena. You can’t tell Madame. She mustn’t know.” The maid cried out.

“Don’t worry. Don’t talk,” Serafina said. We’ve got to get you inside.” The maid had trouble walking but she leaned on Serafina and together they made it to one of the bedrooms.

“Where’s Elena?” the woman asked.

Serafina said nothing. She tore the spread off and lowered the bedding, undid the woman’s outer garments, and helped her out of her undergarments. After covering her with a blanket, she positioned her on one knee and told her to lean on the side of the bed. Serafina put an ear to the girl’s stomach and took a look.

“It won’t be long. This isn’t your first, is it?”

The girl shook her head. “Only once, that’s all it was. Just once. With Honore, and where is he now?” She wailed, hung her head.

Serafina wiped the young woman’s forehead. “I’m a midwife, but I don’t have my satchel with me. Not to worry, we’ll manage just fine.”

She ran to the kitchen and boiled some water. She filled a bowl with the steaming liquid. The woman was screaming as Serafina carried the water and towels back into the room.

“Now do as I say, breathe slowly, breathe in, out, pant a little like this.” She wet a towel and wiped the woman’s brow.

“Where do you work?”

“Downstairs. For Madame Gruenfeld, she doesn’t know, she must never find out.”

“Where is she now?”

“On holiday. Comes back next week. I must keep my job.”

“You’re the only one?”

She nodded.

“What about your family? Do they know?”

She shook her head, moaned. “My father would kill me.”

“Do you live with them?”

She shook her head.

Serafina took another look. “Your name?”

“Mimette.”

“Call me Donna Fina. Everyone does. When the pains come, start pushing.”

“You are from here?”

Serafina shook her head. “Breathe, Mimette, like this.” Serafina panted to show her and the maid did as she was told.

She cried out. “I saw you go up in the lift.” She panted. “I thought you were Elena.”

Serafina wiped the maid’s brow. “You know Elena?”

“She’s been helping me, but she’s away. Elena asked to me watch over Papillon while she’s away.”

With the canniness of animals, the kitten came into the room and jumped up on the bed.

“Papillon, in my pain, I forgot about you today, please forgive me.” Mimette screamed.

“When will she return?”

The maid shook her head. “Don’t know. In the south.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know!” She cried out.

“When did you last see her?”

No time. Baby crowning.

Serafina looked around. There was a small desk on the other side of the room and she found a scissors and some string.

“Now we’re all set.”

“It’s coming. I feel it.”

Serafina ran to her side. “Breathe.” Serafina looked again. “Now push. Hard. Harder.”

Mimette gave a low, long grunt.

“Almost there, almost. Push again. Harder. You can do it!”

It went on like this.

“One more time. Here it comes.” Serafina caught the baby who started to wail. “You have a little girl.”

Exhausted, Mimette lay down on the rug. “Another girl.” Smiling, she took the baby in her arms.

After Serafina tied two knots in the string, she wrapped it around the umbilical cord, cut it, and bundled the after birth in newspaper. She cleaned the baby and handed her to Mimette.

“Not your first.”

But Mimette was sleeping so she lay the baby next to her and shut the door.

As she was walking toward the ladies’ parlor she heard the front door open and slam shut.

Serafina froze. “Who is it?” she said aloud, surprised at the tremor in her voice.

No answer. Instead, footsteps came closer, louder, heavier. More than one person?

She heard a click. Then she heard a loud bang, saw a flash of light, and was thrown to the ground. She felt a searing pain, nothing more.

Chapter 16: The Lawyer Visits Loffredo

A few days after Loffredo was imprisoned, his lawyer paid him a visit. He advised him to plead guilty. He told Loffredo that he’d made inquiries and because of Elena’s reputation in Paris and the fact that she’d been estranged for seven years, he’d be given a light sentence in exchange for a guilty plea. “A crime of passion, nothing more, old chap.” He’d be released in a few months. Loffredo refused, telling the lawyer he was innocent. He asked for paper and wrote to Serafina while his lawyer waited, tapping his fingers on the top of the table.

Once a day they led him to a small courtyard where he exercised. After a week of this with no word from anyone, he boxed with the earth, forming his hands into fists and pounding the ground beneath his feet and then on the stone walls, but a whistle blew and guards cuffed him and took him back to his cell. After the incident with the stones, his shoelaces and razor were removed. Small creatures grew in his beard. When he tried to imagine his library in Oltramari, the picture faded. Freedom in the mind be damned.

One morning a new guard brought him bread and cafe. The cafe was strong, the bread warm and fresh. The guard smiled and called him “my lord.” That afternoon he heard the key turning the tumblers. The friendly guard opened the door. He carried shaving utensils. Loffredo was told to ready himself for a visitor. Another guard appeared who restrained him with ankle and wrist cuffs and the two guards led him to the visitors’ room. The clanking of the chains on the floor reverberated on his teeth. Rosa stood when he entered. Her eyes teared when she saw him.

Chapter 17: L’Hopital del la Charite

Pinned down by clutching hands, Serafina says something to Giulia or is it to Giorgio, they look so much alike. Giorgio’s dead but he stands by her side. She came to Paris to search for something and found him instead.

A new dress for you, Mama, you’ve ruined your old one. A robe, too, and slippers from Le Bon Marche. He told us he was dead and all along he’s been here. I found him hiding in the Elena’s apartment. Rosa, too, she’s here but slips down. Her face falls off the wall, fading into white. Everything in white, I must be dead.

Someone says, “Breathe into the mask,” but the mask holds her down, gives her visions. If only Giorgio would stay. A force pins her down.

“When she wakes, we’ll send for you.”

What is it you found in the apartment that fills you with so much dread? Let me be, let me shed my life. Painting makes me see so much. She feels something pierce her, but it is a child’s finger pressing into her shoulder, a baby’s cry, a kitten’s paw, the voice gruff.

Footsteps, a shot. There it is, I found it, the ghost of a plan, flee this world and what I’ve become. Fight, she tells herself but the breath in the mask mesmerizes. It is magic.

Faces crowd into one another, disappear. She’s flown too close to the sun. She floats above her body, captured by the blinding light, peering down at herself on a table while men and women move around her.

“My pocket, in my pocket, the calendar and the kitten.”

“She’s dreaming. Let her sleep.”

Serafina opened her eyes. She was in a strange bed. The room smelled of ether, blood and urine, the place rivaling the stench of the embalmer’s basement in Oltramari. Smiling men in black robes, their hands folded, stood by her bedside. Rosa and Carmela held each other. Two peeked into the room from the doorway, Arcangelo and Teo. Tessa, too. Catching Serafina’s eye, they straightened and smiled.

“You’ve had a nasty few hours, but you’ll be fine, no thanks to your judgment,” Rosa said, her voice gravelly.

“It was the dessert at the Maison Doree,” Serafina said.

“If you ever go off on your own again…” Carmela paused, seemed at a loss for the right words, and choked. “What made you go out alone? If it weren’t for Teo and Arcangelo, we never would have found you, and you would have bled to death in Elena’s apartment. What you did wasn’t courageous or cunning, it was idiotic. And now you’ll miss your appointment with the French inspector.”

She tried to sit up, but the pain was too great. “Where am I?”

“She doesn’t understand yet. Give her a few hours,” the religious brother said.

“I’m going to be sick.” She closed her eyes, but the room and the people kept spinning.

“Where am I?”

“ L’Hopital del la Charite, left bank, and I’m Frere Michel. I run the hospital. You took a bullet in the shoulder. You were very lucky, it lodged in the muscle, but played havoc with your clavicle. Bits chipped off. Fractured, I’m afraid. Lucky for you, we had our best surgeon on duty. He had a job cleaning it up, found some shards here and there which he had to remove, and a bullet which we’ve given to the police. But the shoulder is intact. No permanent damage. I don’t know when you’ll be able to use your arm, certainly not in the next few months.”

“Left or right?”

“Sleep, now,” she heard Giorgio say.

“Is the baby all right?”

“She’s delirious,” she heard Rosa say. “She’s a midwife.”

She didn’t listen to Giorgio. “The French don’t know what they’re talking about. I must go home. The kitten and the baby. Find Elena.” Was that her voice?

“Do you listen to anyone?” That was Rosa’s unmistakable gravel.

She tried levering herself up using her good elbow and became so dizzy she had to bend to the bowl again.

“All last night’s good food wasted on a stubborn sleuth.”

When she woke, a figure, dark but familiar, stood against the light from the window. Was it the shadowy man come to finish her off?

He rubbed his lapel.

She squinted up at him. “Good morning.”

“Good evening, you mean. You’ve slept the whole day.”

She opened one eye, her good hand visoring the crimson rays of the sun.

“But the sun is…”

“Setting, I’m afraid. My wife sends you these from her garden.”

“How lovely.” Serafina had never seen such beautiful flowers before, small and delicate stems, droopy, the petals like the ears of elves. A nun took them from his hand. She wore a habit the same color as the flowers. Folded wings covered her head. Serafina heard the click of beads and listened to her footsteps recede.

She sank back into the pillow. “The hospitals have private rooms in Paris?”

“Only for special patients,” Valois said. “The prefect arranged it. You were shot and we feared for your life. Two policemen have been assigned to guard you.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Rosa. I owe you an apology.”

The madam smiled. “She’s difficult, sometimes I think not worth the trouble, but we’ve been friends too long to sever ties in Paris. One more trick like this, however…”

The inspector continued. “The pictures of the dead woman are still missing. I asked the photographer to make duplicates, but he can’t find the plates, so I suspect someone did not want you to see them, someone with a long and influential reach.”

Serafina nodded slowly as if she understood everything he said and told him two men had been following her ever since she was commissioned by Elena’s father to find his daughter’s murderer.

“We saw them in Oltramari and in Marseille and here in Paris.”

“The same men?”

Carmela nodded and told him about their encounters with the men in Marseille and Paris.

The inspector was intrigued enough to write himself a note. “I took your two young men with me and we searched your friend’s apartment today.”

“In Sicily, we need an order from the courts for that, not that we always stand on ceremony,” Serafina said.

“Obviously,” Rosa said.

“Here we follow the rules. We obtained a warrant to search the apartment. When your countess friend returns, if she’s still alive, she’ll find quite a mess, all the drawers in the apartment emptied, the clothes searched. It looked like she left in haste. The bed in one room was unmade.”

Serafina told him about the maid from another apartment.

“So you had quite a busy night.”

“Are Elena’s clothes still there?”

Valois shrugged. “Her wardrobe seemed barren for a woman of fashion. Just a few garments hanging in a closet in her bedroom. Heavy winter clothing, a cape, some heavy brocade evening gowns. But either the apartment’s manager or the Busacca family will have much to clean up, not the least of which is the amount of blood in one of the beds-”

“The bed where the maid gave birth,” Serafina said.

Valois smoothed his coat. “And your blood spilled all over an Aubusson carpet in the ladies’ parlor. You know how to leave tracks.”

“And you’ve uncovered what?”

“Nothing yet. Arcangelo and Teo are sifting through the papers.”

“What about the kitten?”

“For now, I’ve given him a home.”

“The maid said she had an arrangement with Elena to take care of the kitten while she was gone,” Serafina said.

“When was the last time she saw her? When did she say she’d return?” Rosa asked.

“The maid was in labor,” Serafina said. “Hard to get straight answers.” A euphemism for she didn’t remember the maid’s answer. Last week, maybe. She’d expected to hear something else from Valois, a stiff scolding at least, and marveled at his transformation, at least in her mind. She told Rosa to go through the pockets of her dress and bring her the contents.

“I’m afraid your dress is unusable, I think the hospital disposed of it.”

Serafina tried to sit, but couldn’t manage it. “But I stuffed papers in the pocket, Elena’s little book filled with writing, perhaps a diary or journal, along with many addresses. It contained information about her friends, I think-I only glanced at a few of the pages. And I also found envelopes bearing an address in… Arles, I believe. Loffredo would know. Her husband has information. If she’s alive, he shouldn’t languish in prison, surely.” She felt the madam’s pinch.

“That hurt!”

Rosa’s eyes dug into hers. “Valois and I are taking care of Loffredo. He’s the least of your worries.”

A brother brought in some chairs. “Ten minutes more. She needs rest.”

“She needs a good scolding,” Carmela said. “She’s messed up this investigation.”

Valois took the brother aside and spoke to him.

“What about Loffredo?” Serafina asked again. “Please. He may have information we need.”

Rosa said something and Valois nodded, but the madam spoke so softly that she had trouble hearing.

In a while Serafina awoke. Carmela and Rosa stood by the bed.

“You’ve slept almost twenty-four hours.”

Her tongue felt like sawdust. With help, she sat up and ate a bowl of soup, hot and delicious. She had to hand it to the French. Even their hospital cuisine was inventive. Her head reeled, but she kept the broth down and in a few minutes, felt much better.

“Why did you pinch me?” Serafina asked.

“You started mumbling about Loffredo and weren’t yourself. I was afraid you would say too much in front of Valois.”

Serafina nodded.

“I showed the cafe owner’s statement to Valois who had trouble believing him-you know how men are when they don’t do something themselves. But he did give me access to Loffredo. He’s in Prison de Mazas and I saw him two days ago and told him not to worry. He should be out soon. I told him you were up to your old tricks.” Rosa dried her eyes with a linen. “He sends you his love.”

A nurse poked her head into the room, and in a moment reappeared with two doctors who jabbed around doing their doctorly thing and grunting in unintelligible French. In the end they told her she was “ bon.”

Giulia brought her a change of clothes, fresh undergarments and several silk blouses created in a strange design, but one she could wear over the bandages which held her back stiff and her left arm in place.

“I’m leaving today?”

“Yes, but you must agree to stay in the hotel. The care there will be much better. We’ve arranged for policemen to guard your room so you can’t go off on your own again. This evening Inspector Valois will return to the hotel and the investigation can resume.”

“I can’t leave looking like this. Bad enough Valois saw me.”

“And don’t forget the two magnificent looking men who guard your door,” Rosa said.

“My hair is a snarled nightmare. I need someone to work miracles.”

A nun came in wagging her cornette. She produced a scissors and waved it in the air. Menacing shadows crossed her face. “I’ll cut it all off, shall I? And lend you a headdress?”

Chapter 18: A Visit from Valois

The hospital retrieved the book and papers found in Serafina’s pockets, bloody but readable. They were written in the bitten-off Italian they spoke in Oltramari, she told him. She doubted that Valois’ translators would make sense of it, but she promised to share any useful information.

Gesuzza rouged and powdered Serafina’s face and combed out her knots while Rosa threatened her if she made a fuss during the ordeal. When she looked in the glass, she saw a remarkable transformation, her complexion not quite so pale, her coiffure not exactly in the latest French style, but presentable, and she was released from the hospital, expressing her gratitude to the staff for their care. She arrived at the hotel in time to see the sun bathe Paris in crimson and gold.

After the evening meal, waiters set up a large round table in Serafina’s suite. A chambermaid fluffed the pillows, lit the jets and lamps, and opened some of the windows leading out to the balcony. The staff seemed glad she had returned, sound and in good spirits.

“Here I sit in Paris and I’m too ill or too busy to enjoy its magnificence.”

“You sound like Nicchia,” Rosa said. “Your disposition is a horror when you’re well, even worse when you’re sick. No one feels sorry for you. You’ve brought this on yourself, so grow up.” The madam patted her black curls.

Serafina smiled.

“Who is Nicchia?” Teo asked.

“The Countess of Castiglione, mistress to many, including Napoleon III. A beauty in her day, but she lost her looks by debauching herself all over Europe. Now she sits alone in her apartment off the Place Vendome like spoiled fruit. She’s draped all the mirrors in black and admits no one except for photographers, of course.”

Carmela played with a pencil. “Sounds like Elena. I wouldn’t be surprised if she arranged her own death.”

“It fits,” Serafina said. She glared at Rosa. “She could have hired the shadows who follow us. She could have arranged for her reticule to be stolen and the woman shot.”

“How does one arrange for a purse to be stolen?” Rosa asked.

“I wouldn’t know for sure. The wealthy have their ways.”

“Your fantasy runs away with you,” Rosa said.

“Perhaps, but let’s not reject it out of hand.”

“The most plausible explanation is that Elena was the woman in the Rue Cassette,” Rosa said.

Serafina’s shoulder throbbed. “Not true. We have it from her latest lover’s lips-Elena was not the dead woman in the Rue Cassette.” She must keep an open mind, she told herself.

“No, really. I know you’ve doubted her death from the beginning. Tell me why,” Rosa said, turning to face Serafina. “Truly. Let’s think it through to the end and slay this dragon.” The madam looked like a stuffed owl. “Is it that you don’t believe in the God of happy endings?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Or do you think she planned it? So here it is, Elena disappears by staging her death as a murder so that the main suspect is Loffredo, a coup de grace to undo the fetters from her past and at the same time get rid of her husband to say nothing of squelching your love affair with him since he’ll either be guillotined or languish in prison.”

Serafina’s shoulder had stopped its drumming. Teo’s face was red. Arcangelo pulled at his sleeves and Carmela hid a smile. Gesuzza looked down at her sewing and Tessa looked at them all, a thick blush on her cheeks.

Rosa continued. “It’s balderdash, this theory of yours that Elena contrived her own death. If so, to what end? How long do you think she can stay away from the Paris she loves? And if the case comes to court, as eventually it must, the details of her sordid life will be aired in public to the delight of the press.”

“You’ve got a point,” Carmela said.

“And who helped her-the aging Sophie who can barely move? Her nephews?”

Serafina shook her head. “Perhaps, but not Ricci.”

“Because you fancy him?”

“Nonsense!”

The madam continued with her theory. “And as for Loffredo languishing in prison, we’re working on his release.”

Arcangelo and Teo nodded.

“So there goes part of your theory,” the madam persisted. “Face it, Elena’s dead. She was slumming-always a danger, even in the respectable part of Paris-and someone killed her.”

“What’s slumming?” Teo asked.

“I knew it,” Serafina said. “Explain yourself.”

While Rosa talked, Serafina half listened. She didn’t have the strength to stop her. But she was beginning to get a sense of the real instigator. She was about to offer another explanation when a knock interrupted them.

Valois entered, dapper as ever and with a sharpened glint in his eye. Probably had his ear to the door for the last five minutes.

After they greeted him, Rosa pulled the cord and ordered more coffee and sweets.

Serafina opened her notebook and began. “Let’s start with what we know.”

Everyone was silent until Teo spoke. “Two men have been following Donna Fina ever since she met with Levi Busacca in Oltramari. They followed us to Marseille and they follow us in Paris. When we corner them, they tell us it’s for our own good-they protect us.”

Valois wrote in his notebook. “They agreed to speak with you? How so?”

They told Valois about the incident in front of the Gare-St. Charles in Marseille, describing the men’s appearance and speech.

“This afternoon we talked to them on the Boulevard des Capucines,” Tessa said. “Again they refused to tell us why they follow us, only that it’s for our protection.”

“What else do we know about them?” Serafina asked, her shoulder beginning to feel like the raw meat it was. Shooting stars appeared in her vision. She had refused all palliatives at the hospital, afraid of their addictive nature ever since Loffredo had explained the danger of opium and its derivatives to her.

“I think I may have recognized one today. He works for the don in Oltramari.”

Valois frowned, but said nothing.

“They stole the photos from Inspector Valois and shot Donna Fina,” Arcangelo said.

“Careful,” Valois said and shook his head. “We know photos and plates are missing. We don’t know who stole them. But there probably is a connection between the theft, the shooting of the woman in the Rue Cassette, and the shooting in Elena’s apartment, and these two men might be responsible. At least it’s worth questioning them.” He scribbled in his black book.

Serafina listened, but made no comment.

Valois continued. “We found a cartridge a few meters from the body on the Rue Cassette. A careful killer would have destroyed it, however we believe this killer was smart but inexperienced. He had enough cunning to place the gun in the slain woman’s hand, but not enough wit to know that she was right-handed and would not have attempted to shoot herself in the left temple with her left hand.”

“But we can speculate that the thefts and shootings are connected,” Arcangelo said.

“Precisely. Right now, we are dealing only with the knowns, but since you drew it to my attention, questioning these men is something I’ve added to my list,” Valois said, writing in his book. “Good work.”

Serafina saw the satisfaction on Arcangelo’s face. Alphonse Valois had taken both young men under his wing. She nodded slowly to herself, wondering what had caused the inspector to change.

Their meeting went on like this, labored, slow. Her body was stiff. Her temples throbbed, but she sat expressionless and still during the exercise, uncomplaining, writing in and consulting her notebook. She made a list of all the knowns surrounding the murder in the Rue Cassette. The murder itself, the attack in Elena’s apartment, being followed, and the theft of the photos and plates. More important, Serafina and Valois together would decide the course of action they’d take in order to solve the mystery of the woman’s death and bring whoever was responsible to justice.

Once again they covered what they knew of the murder, autopsy, and burial.

“Is there a way to determine the dead woman’s identity, other than through exhumation?” Serafina said. Before Valois replied, Carmela asked, “Was the dead woman with child?” She explained the reason for her question.

“The doctor said nothing to me about the condition of the body’s internal organs, but I have re-opened the case based on the attempt to kill Madame Florio two nights ago.”

“Why did her friends say she was pregnant?” Rosa asked.

“Elena told her so.”

“Could be Elena’s fantasy, nothing more.”

Serafina said nothing.

“We know the woman, given to fabrication.”

Valois seemed uncomfortable. “If and when I feel it necessary to request an order of exhumation, I will tell you.”

“But we’d like to work with you,” Serafina said.

He nodded. “Of course.”

She doubted it. “I know you think we’re a nuisance.”

Valois stroked his lapel. “Not at all. But we’re not finished with the knowns, are we?”

“Almost finished. Just the attack in Elena’s apartment the other night. We’ve covered the theft of the photographs and plates.”

There was a knock on the door and waiters brought two carts, one with tea and coffee, the other with a tray of profiteroles, a silver bowl of lemon sorbet, individual apple tarts, marron glace, and gateau chocolat, and a bowl of creme fraiche.

Rosa served while Serafina talked. “I’ll have the marron glace with creme fraiche, a profiterole, and a latte, please.”

“Feeling better?”

Serafina nodded.

“Someone summarize the attack?” Valois asked.

“I was shot two nights ago in Elena’s apartment. Approximate time, eleven-thirty. It was dark, one or two gas jets on low. I had taken an address book and some envelopes from the middle drawer of the desk in the ladies’ parlor. The bullet, lodged in my trapezius, was recovered during the operation.”

Arcangelo handed Tessa a tart and smiled. He took three profiteroles for himself. Teo chose some of everything, and Carmela declined dessert, but accepted a latte.

Valois held up a piece of metal. “The surgeon gave me this bullet from Madame Florio’s shoulder. Please observe, it is similar to the one found in the dead woman’s mouth.”

“Shot from the same gun?” Teo asked. His mouth was ringed with chocolate cake and creme fraiche.

Valois shook his head, taking the last bite of sorbet and swallowing his tea. “Our expert in firearms compared the two. He said they came from the same type of gun, perhaps from a matched pair although he couldn’t say for sure, just that the markings on the two bullets are similar and definitely from the same model, a Remington 95. It’s a Derringer double-barreled pistol, small enough to be concealed in a man’s pocket. Might I try the gateau?” he asked.

“Or in a woman’s purse,” Rosa said, cutting a piece of cake for the inspector.

Serafina felt privileged to be working with the French. They were experts in ballistic investigation going back to the beginning of the century

“That reminds me,” she said, turning to Valois, “I didn’t tell you about my visit to the Rue Cassette late Wednesday afternoon.” She told him about meeting the policeman who found the dead woman. “And I spent an hour interviewing Elena’s latest lover, Etienne Gaston.” She gave Valois his address and related Etienne’s account of the evening he and Elena spent together after the opening April 15, telling Valois that Gaston saw the dead woman in the street shortly after she was shot and claimed she had a much smaller frame than Elena. “He said it most certainly was not Elena.”

“Here we go again,” Rosa said. “Tell him about the revolver.”

“Revolver?”

“Forgotten that part, have we? No matter, I remember.” And Rosa told Valois about the French revolver missing from Gaston’s apartment.

All this talk of murder and Serafina thought too late of Teo. He was red-faced and looking down, although he too was making notes. Serafina reached over and touched his hand, remembering the tragedy surrounding his parents.

“It was long ago.” He managed a smile, and took another forkful of cake. But Serafina knew better. Once it happened, sudden devastation never quit the soul, not for long.

The inspector took a bite of cake. “During our initial investigation, we found blood on a carpet in the ladies’ parlor, a few clothes in Elena’s bedroom closet, no sign that the apartment had been used recently, except for one bedroom, and you’ve explained about helping the maid give birth. Daily newspapers from April 16 to the present were found in the hall, unread. But so far, we haven’t been able to find the cartridge in Elena Busacca’s apartment. It would help us to identify the exact gun, should it be recovered.”

“Don’t forget the kitten,” Serafina said.

Rosa sent Serafina a look. “The presence of the kitten suggests she did not feign her death, as some would have us believe, but was murdered.”

Serafina looked at Rosa. “According to Mimette, she expected to be gone for a while.”

“Where is the kitten?” Arcangelo asked.

“In a good home,” Valois said. “For now.”

“And now to what we must do,” Serafina said. “If we put our heads together, we’ll discover who killed the woman in the Rue Cassette, who attacked me, who are the men who follow us and why, and I think we will discover who stole the photographs and the plates.”

Valois finished his cake and tea. He opened his mouth to speak, but Serafina broke in.

“First things first. I’m sorry, but considerable doubt has been raised about the identity of the dead woman, and I think it no longer necessary to hold Elena’s husband for questioning. Do you agree, inspector-especially in light of the new statement by the cafe owner?”

There was silence. Serafina could feel Rosa’s disapproval. She heard traffic outside, a spurt of laughter from the square below.

Valois narrowed his eyes. “We’ve charged him with murder. He denies it of course, but has no alibi on the night Elena was murdered. Of course he claims he was in his room alone, but there is no one, not even the concierge, who can verify his story.”

“What about Gaston, Elena’s lover? By admission, he was at the murder scene. Couldn’t he have been the one the cafe owner saw with Elena? He, too, fits the description of a tall and angular man, and he claims that his revolver is missing. Could it be similar to the one the killer used? And why haven’t you taken him in for questioning?” She knew about French questioning, brutal and cunning. They were at an impasse unless she could be more convincing. She looked at Rosa who was frowning at her.

“Valois and I discussed this,” Rosa said. “Leave it to us, please.”

“He’s a foreign national. I’m afraid if we release him, he will flee.”

“We know him personally,” Carmela said, staring pointedly at Serafina. “He would never murder his wife.”

Serafina could have hugged her daughter. She knew how much Carmela disliked Loffredo. Instead, she said, “In addition the count is a medical examiner, used to investigations. I’ve worked with him in Oltramari and can vouch for his expertise. And don’t forget,” why hadn’t she thought of this before, “he has intimate knowledge of his wife, Elena, and will be able to give us details about her person which only he can identify. If the body is exhumed, he must be present.”

Valois shook his head. “We’re not ready to request the order of exhumation.”

Rosa looked like an eagle about to swallow a canary. “I think the Italian ambassador might question why you don’t release one of his citizens. He is a gentleman in good standing, well respected in his community, and a count at that. Holding him for over a week on no evidence but the word of a barkeep who now claims he’s not sure that he saw him in his cafe seems flimsy at best. Help us to keep this investigation in this room, Inspector.”

The color washed from Valois’ cheeks. But to his credit, he smiled and it spread to the rest of his face, creasing his cheeks and the skin around his eyes. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about.”

“What would happen if you released him now? You’d have no suspect in custody. Are you afraid of looking foolish?”

The color which vanished from Valois’ face now returned in fury. “If I am to release our only suspect, I must have more information to feed to the press.”

Valois’ reluctance to act was maddening, although Serafina understood why. The inspector was caught between what he should do and what his superiors expected of him. If he released Loffredo without taking another person into custody, he would look weak, even more so if he were importuned by the Italian ambassador to release one of its citizens. And he was hesitant to question Gaston, even though he was a more likely suspect than Loffredo, because he was a prominent French citizen.

Valois got up and looked out the window, a sure sign that he was thinking about Serafina’s arguments.

“You make a valid point. I’ll talk to him. He is a respected scholar, you know.”

There, at least he’d admitted why they were treating Gaston with such deference.

“Let’s get back to what we must do, find the man who shot you and take him in for questioning.”

“You mean, find the men who attacked me. It sounded like there was more than one.”

“And we must find out as much about the other men, the ones who follow you.”

“You mean, take them in for questioning?”

He nodded. “Arcangelo and Teo can help us locate these men; Carmela and Tessa can help with Elena’s apartment. I’d like them to make a list of all articles of clothing and see if we cannot find more documents hidden somewhere in her apartment.”

“We still need to search for more of Elena’s friends, especially those in the art world,” Carmela said. “Tessa and I should go to Cafe Guerbois. We’ve been told that many painters gather there, especially on Sundays and Thursdays.”

“And I need to read the documents we’ve gotten from Elena’s apartment,” Serafina said.

“As for the men who follow you,” Valois said, “I have a plan, and disguises for my two friends here.”

“And Rosa and I would like to question Dr. Melange about his autopsy of the dead woman,” Serafina said. “I’ll need a letter of introduction.”

Carmela, Tessa, Rosa, and Serafina sat in Rosa’s room listening to Carmela as she read Elena’s address book. It contained more than addresses of her friends, but he book was a jumble. At best, it was an index into the character and mind of the woman that Serafina sought to understand. For example, an address would be partially written, punctuated by two or three quick words meant to indicate the character of the friend. But like a boomerang, the jots became indications not so much of the friend as they were of Elena herself and her disjointed mind.

“While Valois works with Arcangelo and Teo, we’ll split up and talk to as many of her friends as possible. Since Tessa speaks the language of artists-”

“What do you mean, speaks their language?” Rosa asked. “She is an artist. It’s the dream she was born with. Remember, she was born with a caul covering the tender spot on her head. She’ll see visions, isn’t that what artists do?”

“They capture the truth of what things really are so that others may see,” Carmela said.

Serafina had forgotten about the caul. She took two pieces of the hotel’s stationery, one for Carmela, the other for herself. Turning to her daughter, she said, “We’ll make two lists. You and Tessa will interview painters and the like. Go to their studios if possible. Rosa and I will concentrate on the others.”

Carmela grabbed the book from Serafina. “You and your lists. But how will we know which ones are artists, which are not, and where to find them? The book has some addresses, but there’s no order to it. Most of these scribbles are notes to herself. Some of the comments I understand, but much of the information is abbreviated, intelligible only to Elena herself. This page, for instance: ‘Renoir, studio No. 2, B. Mich, near St. G…’ and nothing more. Then ‘Mallarme, Rue de R,’ on the same line with ‘Tarnier, April 18, La M.’ Or this one, ‘M. Misere, blanch.’ And here, ‘Degas, Rue Canard.’

Tessa told her that she’d recognized the names, Degas and Renoir as two of the artists whose paintings were hanging in the show they’d seen two days ago. Carmela picked up her map and tried to find Rue Canard, but could not. “The word Canard must stand for something else, Elena’s pet name for a street or a district in Paris. The book is useless!” She tossed it on the bed.

“I have an idea,” Tessa said. “We have an invitation to visit Victorine Meurent’s studio. We’ll start there. Victorine knows Elena. Perhaps she knows the names and addresses of other artists who also know Elena. Or we can go back to the exhibit on the Boulevard des Capucines. Perhaps Berthe Morisot will be there, and we can get a list of Elena’s friends from her.”

Carmela agreed. “Perfect. Something I should have done on our first visit. She’ll help us, I’m sure.”

Having decided the book was of no further use, the three retired to their separate rooms.

Serafina, however, was not yet ready to toss the book aside, telling herself she’d get up early the next morning and study it some more. After the chambermaid helped her into bed, she slept for a few hours, but was awakened by singing and laughter, a rowdy party down the hall or on the floor above or below, most likely. She had to lie flat on her back, unmoving, and that made sleep impossible. She rose and spent the next few hours combing through Elena’s book, scrabbling through the pages, trying to understand the woman’s notes. Her forehead was tight, her vision strained, and something she’d eaten was playing havoc with her stomach, but still she looked at the book, then at the wall as if mesmerized. There was something she was missing, something in the book that disturbed a memory long forgotten, some words that held the key, she was sure. She dozed.

In an hour or so she awoke and started reading the address book again from the beginning, opening the pages slowly, scanning with a finger down the page, stopping at cryptic comments. Nothing jumped into her mind except bright spots swimming before her eyes. Maddening, like a door opening a crack but not enough to pass through. Perhaps it was the chimera created by wishing it were so. Nothing looked familiar. Were these the hallucinogenic scribbles of a drugged mind? Some of them, perhaps. Other comments were just humorous asides. But there was something she’d read, something disturbing, something buried, clawing to break free. She wanted this case to be over. She wanted Elena to be alive, Loffredo to be released.

She remembered the envelopes she’d found in Elena’s ladies’ parlor. Two were addressed to her in the Rue des Juifs, another to her at an address in Arles. Would she have gone there to hide? For how long? How could Elena believe she wouldn’t be discovered? Then she remembered that if her father hadn’t asked that her death be investigated, the ruse would never have been discovered. Despite what Gaston claimed, could Elena in fact be the dead woman on the Rue Cassette? She pushed the thought away. And the most puzzling question of all, why would Elena want to disappear.

“You’re doing your wizard thing again,” Rosa said. A few minutes earlier she’d returned with her maid to check up on Serafina. She sat on the bed while Gesuzza washed and dressed Serafina’s shoulder. “You’re far away and in some bygone century. Thinking of Loffredo?”

“There’s something we forgot to consider,” Serafina said.

“Let me guess, you’re building a case again.”

“Who inherits Elena’s estate?”

The madam narrowed her eyes. “I take back everything I’ve said about you and business.”

“I remember some time ago during the case in Bagheria, remember?”

“Of course I remember. It’s where Umbrello and I met. Quite a delicious affair, that.”

“You’re off the subject. No, I meant that it was during our time in Bagheria that Elena found out about Loffredo. She threatened to change her will and cut off his allowance, remember? Loffredo laughed, but she may have done just that. How can we find out? We’d need to know who profits by her death.”

They were silent a while. Serafina may have dozed, but was awakened by a sharp noise in the street below. Paris became even more alive at night.

“Leave it to me,” Rosa said.

“And while you’re at it, check her account activity. Can you manage it?”

“What account activity?” Rosa asked.

“Her bank account, of course.” The perfect job for the madam.

Chapter 19: A View of Paris

Dr. Melange was a slight man with long fingers and a thin mustache. He took their note of introduction with a slight incline of the head, reading it over several times. His office was in the morgue facing the back of Notre Dame. Serafina and Rosa arrived early, before the crowds that formed later in the day. They were seated in front of him waiting for him to finish reading over his notes.

Serafina wondered why she found the room so close. Perhaps because she was defying the orders of her doctor to stay flat on her back for a week. She could wait no longer and asked her question. “Was the woman murdered in the Rue Cassette with child?”

He shrugged. “Yes.”

“I told you,” Rosa said. “Thank you doctor, we won’t waste any more of your time.”

Serafina felt her pulse quicken. She looked at Rosa expecting the madam to gloat. Instead, her face was inscrutable.

The doctor finished his thought. “No longer with child. But at one time she had given birth or at least had expected a child, perhaps many times, but she was not with child at the time of her death. She was wracked with lesions caused by venereal disease, a condition common among prostitutes. I’m afraid she would have died in a few months if she hadn’t been murdered. She was a prostitute who should have been imprisoned for defying the health laws. You were her friends?”

“No. And you told this to the inspector?”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t asked. I was asked to determine the cause of death and if the deceased had committed suicide, but why would I include the fact that she was not pregnant?”

“Because her condition may have had something to do with her death. For example, her husband finds she is not with child, the reason he married her, so he shoots her.”

“Far fetched. I respect the privacy of the dead and don’t mention their condition unless I am asked specifically by an investigator, such as yourself, if the woman was with child. As a matter of course, we examine the whole body including all the organs.”

On the way back to the hotel, Serafina said, “I knew it. The dead woman was not with child. Then she could not have been who she claimed to be.”

“She didn’t claim to be anyone. She was dead,” Rosa reminded her.

“You know what I mean. The reticule she carried was stolen. It belonged to Elena. The papers inside identified her as Elena. Sophie de Masson identified the dead woman as her niece, that’s what I meant. Must I spell it out?”

“What have you found out about her will?” Serafina asked.

“Give me time. It’s not easy, although it should be public knowledge. Elena is dead, after all.” The madam shot Serafina a triumphant glance. “Oh, really?”

They were silent as they fought the crowds gawping at the bodies displayed in the front glass of the morgue, one of the more ghoulish recreations of some Parisians. The driver helped them into the carriage and they headed for the hotel, swaying with the clopping of the horse. Serafina’s mood matched the grayness of the sky. She tried to tighten her cape. “I’m freezing.” She glanced at Rosa and added, “But the hat is keeping my feet warm.”

The madam said nothing.

“I knew it. The woman was not with child.” Serafina’s shoulder ached.

“You said that. Proves nothing,” Rosa said. “Not yet. All we know is this: Elena’s friends said that she was pregnant. You know she bent the truth to suit her whim. Whatever she did, whatever she said was for attention. She longed for it. Sad, really, when you think of it. Bizarre. I believe at times Elena is mad. Perhaps she felt she was no longer in the limelight, so she told her friends that she was with child in order to gain their attention. Anything to provoke a shocking response and an exciting way to explain a gain in girth. And the woman was what, at least forty?”

“Not quite. She’s my age.”

The madam gave her a wicked glare. “Dream on. How old were you when the twins were born twenty-two years ago?”

Serafina looked at a seagull flying low over the Seine. The morning traffic was thick and they were stopped near the Pont Neuf. “You’re right. We must find confirmation. If we could prove that Elena was with child on April 16, then perhaps we wouldn’t have to request exhumation, and think of it, Sophie de Masson can sit forever with the body buried in the family crypt, penniless.”

“Why don’t we find Elena? If she’s not lounging about in her coffin, then she must be somewhere,” Rosa said.

There was silence for a moment until the madam with that mind of hers said, “I’ll tell you why we don’t search for Elena, because you’re not convinced that Elena lives.”

As they approached the hotel, Serafina wondered how much Sophie had to gain by deliberately identifying an unknown corpse as the body of her niece. Or was it an honest mistake and Sophie was in fact losing her eyesight? As she turned the key to her door, she glanced at the two policemen guarding her room and went to her desk. She picked up Elena’s address book and sat in the chair, reading and looking up to stare at the wall and think. Perhaps doze.

“Are you mad? Why travel again to the place where you were shot?”

“I need to sit and think.”

“Do that in your room.” Rosa looked at her as if she were wild. Perhaps she was. But there was something in the address book, something she was reading and re-reading and still missing because she hadn’t yet fathomed the mind of Elena. The best way to do that was to sit in the woman’s apartment, breathe the air she’d once breathed, touch her desk, her chair. After all, they weren’t friends, not really, and she needed to get to know Elena in order to ferret out the cryptic notes in her address book. It wouldn’t take long, she explained to Rosa.

This time they took le petite ceinture. It was a much faster way to the sixteenth arrondissement during the day because they avoided traffic.

More important, Serafina saw the people of Paris, listened to them speak in low tones to one another, the words nasal and clipped yet somehow sonorous, especially because she didn’t understand the sense and could therefore concentrate on the sound.

The French loved to talk. Most of the women on the train wore aprons and long cotton dresses, the men, thick corduroy trousers, many with long faces, tired. Maybe they were going home, having worked most of the night and much of the morning as well. Women carried baguettes, clutched in hands cracked and blistering and from harsh soap, callused from work. They were women who worked as laundresses, the sleeves of their blouses rolled up, exposing powerful arms. Serafina remembered what the young sergent de ville had said about the calluses on the dead woman’s hands. The men wore berets on their head, leather aprons over their bleu de travail, and their handlebar mustaches were neatly trimmed. Some had linen kerchiefs rolled and tied around their necks. Their eyes were bloodshot from drink, their hands thick and bruised from work.

They got off at Station de Passy, a quieter section of the city new to Rosa. Serafina marveled at the rows of apartment buildings interspersed with large homes, the noise muffled by the great trees of the Bois de Boulogne. When they arrived at Elena’s apartment, Serafina was struck by two men wearing bleu de travail who pruned the shrubbery near the entrance. They shoveled clippings into a wheelbarrow, their pace slow, pausing to look around, saying a few words to each other, then gazing out at the scene, cigarette butts dangling from their lips.

She smiled. “Do you recognize anyone?” she asked Rosa.

“What are you talking about?”

“The two workers in blue uniforms. Look familiar?”

Rosa smiled. “One’s pulling his sleeve, the other licking his lips, both hardly working-how could I not recognize them?”

They rang the bell.

Instead of the concierge reading Le Figaro, a policeman sat at the desk polishing the visor of his kepi.

“Inspector Valois is expecting us.”

He nodded and pointed to the elevator down the hall. “Eighth floor, mesdames.”

“Liar,” Rosa said, under her breath as they ascended in the slow, creaky lift. “The stairs would have been faster. If we fall and die, it’s all your fault.”

Serafina was surprised to find so many men in the apartment. Several detectives were assigned to each room, some lifting the carpets, some with magnifying glasses, others carefully putting what they’d found in small envelopes and marking them. The French investigators were impressive, she had to admit it.

“Carmela and Tessa went to talk to artists at the exhibit,” Valois told them after greeting them.

Serafina explained why she was here. Any room would do for her purposes, so she sat in a chair in the glassed-in sun room at the back of the apartment. It faced the center of Paris. At first Serafina was enthralled with the view until she settled into a meditative arrangement with herself, unmoving.

Rosa sat for a while, and then became bored. She decided to help the inspector in whatever way she could, but found he was occupied in a corner of the ladies’ parlor talking in low tones to one of his men. Drifting through the kitchen, she opened each drawer, uncertain as to why she did, other than for something to do. As she opened a cupboard full of cut glass, she saw what looked like a pile of notes rolled and stuffed into a small vase in the rear. After spreading the papers out on the table she read one, shook her head, scooped them up, and stashed them in her pocket. She went through all the other drawers, climbing the ladder to root through the high cabinets, but found nothing else of interest.

Slowly she made her way back to the sun room where Serafina sat. She hadn’t moved, so Rosa sat down opposite her, instinctively opting for the most comfortable chair in the room. She put her head back and dozed, waiting for Serafina to finish. When Rosa opened her eyes, the wizard had disappeared.

Valois was still busy, most of his men huddled around the blood stain Serafina had created on the Aubusson carpet, so she made her way to the main foyer and up a winding staircase to the second floor, a glass conservatory and ballroom. It was enormous. Elena must have the exclusive use of the building’s roof. It had a breathtaking view of Paris. She doubted she’d find much of anything up there other than all of Paris spread out before her, but she wanted Rosa to see it, so she went back downstairs and saw Valois talking to a photographer.

When she ascended with Rosa, the madam was enthralled. They looked to the east and saw the Ile de la Cite like a magnificent boat riding the Seine with the statue of Henri IV at its bow, the ruins of the Hotel de Ville on the far bank of the river, the traffic on the bridges, the boulevards, the streets. She saw the Jardin des Tuileries and the destroyed remnants of the Palais des Tuileries, their hotel and the Place du Palais Royal, the Place Vendome, the glittering streets in the first arrondissement where the wealthy from all over the world did their shopping. Her eyes moved across the river to the Palais du Luxembourg and its sweet gardens where she could spend a month, the impressive dome of the Pantheon, even the tiny Rue Cassette which ten days ago held the mystery she hoped to unravel.

Rosa pointed to the esplanade and chapel of Saint-Louis-des-Invalides and Mansard’s dome glistening in the sun. “And there’s the Champ de Mars and the military academy.”

Serafina said nothing.

“And winding through it all, the Seine, mistress of the city, the barges floating on it like black swans,” Rosa said.

Serafina looked at the scene, the light unique to Paris. The world seem silvery. “I must agree with you,” she said, “Paris is a beauty.”

“Too poetic by half,” the madam said. But her face betrayed her enchantment. “Could you live here?” she asked.

Serafina nodded. “The people still have what we’ve lost.”

To the west stood La Muette, its delightful park a pale green, and behind it, the deep green mantle of the Bois de Boulogne, dark and foreboding. “You can’t see it, but beyond the Bois is Longchamp. Remember Ricci telling us we should go?”

“If we have time, we must. His description of the sound of hooves on grass made me shiver,” Rosa said.

“We’ll have time.” Serafina looked at her friend.

“You know what happened already, don’t you,” Rosa said.

“Not completely.”

“What does that mean? Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a yes and a no, but I see now through a glass darkly.”

“You stole that line.”

Serafina smiled. She could tell by the roll of Rosa’s eyes and the upward thrust of her arms that the madam didn’t much care to understand. She looked at her watch, reluctant to leave.

“If we have enough time to go to Longchamp, then we’ll have enough time to visit Pere-Lachaise,” Rosa said.

“Say again? Wasn’t our visit to the morgue enough for you? Why traipse around in a cemetery?”

“Murat’s grave. He was so dashing, so handsome. I’ve loved him since grade school history.”

Rosa was her oldest friend. They’d known each other since forever, too many years to count, and yet she still surprised Serafina. Rosa harbors a longing for Joachim Murat? How could she?

Serafina closed her eyes, letting the breeze blow her curls, feeling the peace of it. She was close to the end, she knew it.

Rosa touched Serafina’s good shoulder. “I almost forgot.” She reached into her pocket and brought out a wad of paper. “While you were sleeping in the sun room-”

“I was most certainly not sleeping.”

“Whatever. I found these. Keep them in your pocket. Too much for Valois to handle just now. Besides, I know you’ll want to act on them. They’re notes of indebtedness to Elena from that handsome young pup, Ricci. Seems he ran up gambling debts.”

“Ricci?” Serafina couldn’t believe it of him. “He seemed so genuine, so polite, so…”

“So little you know of men. Did you total up the cost of his suit, his hat, cologne, cane, gloves? He’s expensive, I tell you. In total, he owes his cousin a small fortune,” Rosa said. “By my calculation, close to twenty-five thousand francs. For all we know, there are others. So clever of you to ask about Elena’s will.” Rosa tapped the side of her nose. “Who said, ‘In the end, it’s all about lucre’?”

“You repeat yourself. Have you heard from your source?”

“I have, but I was saving the news for later.”

“Go on, then. Who is he, by the way?”

“Fina. You should know better than to ask. I never reveal my sources. Except I will say, he struts about the piazza like a rooster wearing an avvocato’s robe. When you hear the terms, promise not to jump to conclusions.”

Serafina crossed her arms. “Go on.”

“There’s a substantial bequest to La Maternite and to some society of artists, I don’t remember the whole name, but you can imagine.”

She was silent, waiting for the rest.

“The major portion of her estate, some twenty-five million lire, goes to her aunt, Sophia Busacca.”

Serafina stopped. Her hands were cold. For Loffredo, not a mention.

“You’re jumping, I see it, and you promised not to. There’s more. Should the aunt pre-decease, it’s equally divided between her sons, Elena’s three nephews.”

“I thought so,” Serafina said. “And that’s why Levi Busacca commissioned me to find his daughter’s murderer. I cabled him, you know. I told him I thought his daughter might be alive.”

“What did he say?”

“He hasn’t replied.”

They were silent for some time, drinking in the beauty of Paris, until Serafina asked about Elena’s bank account.

“On April 15, one-thousand francs were withdrawn. No activity since that time.”

Serafina read one of the notes signed by Ricci, shuffled through the rest, and put her hand to her forehead.

“Do they darken the glass you look through?” Rosa asked.

Serafina shook her head.

“Just so you don’t go all wizard on me again. And by the way, I’m famished.”

“Keep the notes and remind me about them later.”

On the way out, they met Valois. “We’d like to take you and your wife and son to dinner,” Rosa said. “Vefour at nine tonight? We’ve asked for a private room.”

As they walked to the carriage, they saw Teo and Arcangelo lumbering behind two policemen. They’d cuffed the two shadows and were pushing them toward a wagon.

Chapter 20: La Maternite

“Port Royale, driver,” Serafina said.

“Not on your life. I don’t know what’s there, but it doesn’t sound like my kind of place. Anyway, I must have food first. It’s a long time until we eat tonight.”

Serafina told the driver to find them a brasserie in the sixth arrondissement. “Not too noisy.”

When the waiter brought their food, a sole meuniere with a glass of mineral water for Serafina and a peppered steak and pommes frites with a glass of Bordeaux for Rosa, the madam said, “Tell me what’s at the Port Royal, something to do with Elena, I fear.” She forked a morsel of steak and French fries into her mouth, savoring the richness and swallowing a large mouthful of wine.

“ La Maternite, one of the hidden treasures of Paris,” Serafina began. “What you thought of as sleeping on my part was thinking.”

“Your mother sent you there, didn’t she? After that disastrous affair of yours with what’s his name. That was one of your worst moves, by the way. You almost failed to get your certificate. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.” Rosa shoveled; she chewed; she drank.

“You’re off the subject entirely. Today I remembered a doctor who was making a name for himself at La Maternite, all over Paris in fact, at the time I attended the school of midwifery.”

“One of your teachers?”

“No, we were taught by the head midwife, a femme savante. Wonderful woman. Strict, which is what I needed at the time. Mama used to say that the French have a lot to teach the world about midwifery, and she was right. But we attended his lectures. He had most unusual thoughts about delivering breech births, I remember. I was slightly in awe of him.”

“So?”

“I saw his name, Tarnier, in Elena’s address book, and I’ve been puzzling over it ever since, trying to remember its significance until today in Elena’s apartment.” She reached into her pocket, brought out the little book, and showed Rosa the note written in Elena’s hand-“Tarnier, April 18, La M”.

“But La Maternite is for women who can’t afford a midwife. And if he’s the chief of surgery, why would he agree to treat Elena?” Rosa asked.

“You need to ask? The will?”

“The large bequest to La Maternite. Of course, how stupid of me,” the madam said.

They paid the bill and left, thanking the maitre d’hotel for the wonderful service.

When they arrived at La Maternite, Serafina asked to speak with Dr. Tarnier on a matter of some urgency and was disappointed. He was in Lyon for a conference, the receptionist told her. When she asked to speak with his assistant, the woman shook her head. “I’m afraid he is away as well. He returns Monday.”

Serafina thanked her and walked toward the door.

“Giving up like that?” Rosa asked.

“You’re right.”

They walked back to the desk. “I was a student here many years ago. Madame Charrier was the chief midwife.” The young woman nodded and said she’d heard the name. “May I speak with whoever is in charge?”

Serafina and Rosa were ushered into a parlor with a view of the cloisters and gardens. The grounds looked the same to Serafina, large, old, quiet, boring, and imposing. A group of students passed by, huddled together, and a young woman sat on a bench in the gardens, her head buried in a book. Serafina remembered her school days here, the ordeal of early morning classes in the cold when a thin coating of ice floated on top of the pitcher in her room. But the French led the world in compassionate and innovative birthing techniques and Serafina learned most of her midwifery skills during the six months she’d spent here.

In a while a woman dressed in fine black wool with a stiff collar and apron entered the room. She was introduced to Rosa and Serafina as the chef de la Maternite. She listened patiently while Serafina told her that their friend was missing, perhaps wrongly assumed dead, probably with child and in need of help.

“We are trying to locate Elena Loffredo. I’d like to know if she was a patient of Dr. Tarnier. His name appears in her address book. As her physician, perhaps he would know where she is.”

The woman made no response but smiled. Her blue eyes held only compassion and intellect. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Your face, your eyes, the richness of your hair, yes, I remember you now. Don’t tell me…Charlotte… that’s it, Charlotte Clemence. You were a star and I was a foreign student, but you helped me with the language.”

“Now I go by the name Charlotte Clemence-Calle. Despite the language difficulties, you were quick to catch on.”

“And very appreciative of the skills I was taught by Madame Charrier. Such a learned woman. Small, but every bone in her body was alive and focused on helping mothers birth their babies. You were so kind to me.”

There was a pause.

“I know you can’t tell me why my friend saw Dr. Tarnier, but if you could please tell me if she is one of his patients, I’d be grateful.”

Charlotte Clemence-Calle rang a bell. “You’re correct, I can’t tell you. Privileged information. But I’ll ask a student to get his appointment book.”

While they waited, they reminisced about their time as students, the early morning hour of the lessons, the live demonstrations which Serafina found so helpful, the professional compassion of the school and hospital.

“And the fire-a terrible time,” Charlotte said. “They never discovered who caused it, but a student studying by candlelight was suspected. She was reprimanded and left in disgrace.”

Serafina started in her seat. “I remember. But she didn’t cause the fire.”

Should she say something now? What good would it do, so long after the event? She shut her eyes and recalled the flames in the middle of the night, the screams, running feet, the choking, the retching, the pushing as girls and teachers rushed to safety. The stench of smoldering wet wood was all that remained of the wing in the morning. Contained in an unused part of the building, the fire was extinguished before there were any deaths, but it was an event Serafina never forgot. She took a few deep breaths. At the time she suspected one of the custodians. She could see him behind her closed lids-horrid how his pig eyes haunted her still-the wine-colored flush of his bloated face, the rotten smell of his breath as he stood leering before her on the edge of memory. She’d gone to Madame Charrier’s office to tell her what she suspected. About to knock, she hesitated. She lost her nerve.

The realization still shamed her. That night she wrote to her parents begging them to let her leave. And they had, but the horror of the fire remained, the sudden twist of fate, an unexpected, uncontrollable force rushing in and lashing out, leaving only destruction in its wake. And worse, her weakness in not speaking her mind, in letting an innocent be reprimanded. It was a sin against the truth that remained to torture her. She would never be silent again.

When she re-focused, Charlotte Clemence-Calle was paging through a leather-bound book, no doubt skimming Dr. Tarnier’s appointments.

“She saw him at the end of March, again on April 9, and most recently on April 16.”

Serafina and Rosa exchanged glances. “The time of the appointment on April 16?”

“Two in the afternoon.”

“You’re certain of the date?”

“Of course.”

“And would Dr. Tarnier be willing to share this information with representatives of the Surete?”

“I don’t see why not.”

She hugged Madame Clemence-Calle and told her what a help she’d been. “And the custodian, a round man with dark, stringy hair, a wine-colored face and rotten teeth, he’s the one I suspected of starting the fire.”

Charlotte Clemence-Calle widened her eyes. “Our suspect, too. I cannot forget him. He insisted he was fast asleep when the blaze broke out. We couldn’t prove otherwise.”

Serafina shook her head. “I saw him standing in the garden, watching the fire, his eyes lit by the lantern he held in his hand, and the look on his face, I’ll never forget it.”

The teacher nodded slowly, then gave Serafina a Gallic shrug. “Too late now. One day soon after the Siege, the custodian disappeared. We heard he’d joined the Communards and was executed after the city was freed.”

“Proves nothing,” Rosa said on the way back to the hotel.

“Elena had an appointment with Tarnier on April 9 and April 16 in the afternoon, hours after she died and it proves nothing?”

Rosa smiled. “Very well, it proves you were right. I need a sweet.”

“After the meal you had at the brasserie?”

Chapter 21: Vefour

The maitre d’hotel met them in the lobby, a sparkling room with gilded walls, decoupage panels, and rock crystal chandeliers suspended from a high ceiling. Serafina heard the ring of crystal glasses, the muffled sounds of china on linen, the hiss of candles, and the distant clop of horses’ hooves on the narrow Rue de Beaujolais.

They were dressed in their finest garments. Serafina wore a gown recently reworked by Giulia to accommodate Serafina’s shoulder. Her fingers grazed the long strand of her mother’s pearls worn only on special occasions. Not used to such attire, she found her movements constricted, or maybe it was that Gesuzza had pulled her corset a little too tightly.

Madame Valois, a beautiful woman, wore her blonde locks in an elaborate coiffure. She chose an ultramarine gown for the occasion cut in the latest fashion with a scooped neck. When Francoise removed her cape, Serafina could see that the dress was daringly low-cut in the back. Like Serafina, she wore pearls, but in a collier.

The young people were huddled around Carmela, who had begun a conversation with them about the buildings of Paris and Haussmann’s renovations.

After introductions were made, they were taken to their cabinet with a magnificent view of the Jardin du Palais Royal.

Serafina saw Rosa whispering to the maitre d’hotel. The madam stopped when she saw Serafina staring at her. No matter, her friend was up to some trick or other, probably ordering elaborate desserts.

She was mesmerized by the style of the restaurant and the waiters passing with high-domed dishes.

“I won’t forget this evening,” Valois said. “It’s my first experience dining here, and I thank you for inviting us.”

“You won’t thank us when you hear what we have to say,” Serafina said. Led by Rosa, they laughed. She was glad to see Valois in this setting with his wife, Francoise, and their son, shy at first until Arcangelo and Teo asked him to sit next to them.

Clothed in a deep rose gown and wearing matching evening shoes, Tessa pointed to the pool and gardens filled with people strolling even at the late hour. They were theater goers enjoying intermission or perhaps a lover’s tryst, Rosa told her.

They took their places at two tables, both set with fine china, silver place settings, and crystal goblets. In the center of each table was an elaborate silver epergne filled with flowers flanked on either side by candelabra. The four younger people sat at one table, Serafina, Rosa, Carmela, Inspector and Madame Valois at the other. After they settled, the waiters brought out three bottles of champagne on ice, poured the bubbling liquid into flutes and disappeared, closing the double doors to their room. Valois stood and proposed a toast to the Palais Royal, its gardens and fountain, the restaurant, the evening, and to their continued collaboration.

“There’s been a mistake,” Serafina said. “We are nine and there are ten places, an empty one next to me, unless you mean for me to eat for two people.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Rosa said. She got up and walked out of the room. Valois looked at his wife and down at his plate and Arcangelo, Teo, and Charlus took the opportunity to excuse themselves and stand at the window. They pressed their hands to the glass and pointed out buildings and statues. Charlus’s arm shot out, gesturing to an unseen spot beyond the formal gardens. “My school’s across the river beyond the Invalides,” he said. “Louis Le Grand.”

“You’re lucky,” Teo said, and Arcangelo pulled at his sleeves.

“Don’t worry,” Tessa said to him, “you know more about donkeys and horses than anyone else.” Arcangelo’s face flooded with color.

Rosa returned a few minutes later, escorted by a man wearing a dinner jacket. As they approached the table, the young men returned to their seats. When they drew closer, Serafina started in her seat, but she bit her lip, trying to show as little emotion as possible. Her heart flew to her throat and she felt light-headed, but she sipped mineral water and steadied herself. Loffredo walked with Rosa to the table. Loffredo, looking gaunt but smiling. He was free and Serafina struggled not to run to him.

“Thanks to you, our countryman is free,” Rosa said and clapped, inclining her head to Valois.

“An evening of surprises,” Valois said, straightening his table napkin while Loffredo seated himself next to Serafina and smiled at her. Underneath the table, his hand found her knee.

They drank, and Serafina, blinking and trying to control her voice and her mind, announced their discovery at La Maternite this afternoon.

There was silence.

Valois touched the satin lapels of his dinner jacket, surprised at Elena’s appointment with Dr. Tarnier on the afternoon of April 16. “Since the coroner claimed that she died almost twelve hours earlier, either the countess has extraordinary powers of rejuvenation or could not have been the woman in the Rue Cassette, and we have another mystery on our hands.” He opened his notebook and wrote something.

“And a different murder,” Serafina said. “And different suspects,” she added looking at Valois.

“Unless Dr. Tarnier’s assistant was mixed up with the dates,” Rosa said, adding that they didn’t speak to Tarnier directly because he was out of town, but to the chef de la Maternite who obtained his appointment book.

Squeezing Loffredo’s hand, Serafina, whose cheeks were burning, looked at Rosa who gave nothing away. But Serafina’s ardor, like a passing breeze, quickly died when she saw Francoise staring at them. After all, at the table sat an inspector of La Surete Nationale and his wife, the latter more discerning when it came to matters of the heart, Serafina knew. Carmela seemed to sense the danger, too. She frowned, her eyes darting from her mother to Valois. Serafina took a large swallow of mineral water and pressed the linen to her lips, her cheeks beginning to cool.

She realized the delicate position she was in. Valois must not know of her affair with Loffredo. She glanced at the inspector and decided there was no threat from him, but his wife was another matter. Francoise Valois’s eyes flicked around the room, taking in more than the decor. She seemed to inhale the relationships of people with one another. Now her eyes moved from Loffredo to Serafina and a slight smile played about her face.

Beyond Serafina’s present situation was another problem. What was she feeling? It wasn’t passion for the man seated next to her-well, not an overwhelming force, at any rate. She stole another look at him. He was grayer, more chiseled, but impeccably attired and groomed. His recent suffering was apparent and fired her compassion. She knew he was incapable of murder, had been wrongly accused because of the mistakes and deception of others. She felt sorry for the man who had lost all claims to inheriting his wife’s fortune. Had their affair run its course, or had the fear of discovery dampened her ardor for the moment? If her eyes swam, so did her soul. Best to stuff her confusion for the evening. Now it was time for her to solve the mysterious disappearance of Elena.

She had other questions. If they found Elena alive and well, would Loffredo still be implicated in a murder? She was unsure and must ask Valois, but she didn’t see how. After all, where was his motive?

Francoise Valois put down her glass. “Dr. Tarnier would not allow a discrepancy in his appointment book. It is unthinkable. I know the man and the hospital. He is an esteemed and exacting physician, a very popular chief of surgery at La Maternite.”

“Nonetheless, we must check the dates with him when he returns to his office next week,” Valois said. His voice was stony.

“His assistant returns Monday,” Serafina said.

Valois shrugged. “Of course we’ll speak to him, but before we approach Madame de Masson, I think we must hear it from Tarnier’s lips.”

Valois turned to Loffredo. “You’ve told us that you and your wife were estranged, that you had little contact with each other except as her escort to certain functions whenever she requested your presence. She’d write to you and you’d travel to Paris to be at her side, not staying with her, but were a frequent guest at a small hotel on the Rue Jacob.”

Loffredo nodded.

“Do you know anything about her condition or her physicians? The other men in her life? Her current suitor? To your knowledge, was she with child?”

Loffredo removed his hand from Serafina’s and stole a glance at her before replying. “When I arrived in Paris, Elena told me that she was with child. I was surprised. She didn’t tell me who the father was or who her physician was. And I’m afraid I didn’t ask.”

“Why would she choose the chief of surgery at La Maternite to be her physician?” Rosa asked. “And why would she choose a physician at all? Wouldn’t she want a midwife?”

Rosa had a point.

“Unless she felt there might be complications. She is a primigravida with close to forty years,” Francoise said.

“And there could indeed be other complications,” Serafina said, “considering Elena’s nature. She’s had many lovers.” Rosa looked at Serafina. They’d known each other for so long, and Serafina was sure Rosa was thinking the same thing, the possibility of disease. They were Italian and the Valois were French. What would they think of people who spoke so unreservedly about their own? Worse, Serafina hinted at a subject best left untouched in polite society under any circumstances, but decidedly not mentioned at table. And yet she knew that this was a murder investigation and they were pressed for time. Secrets and innuendoes only hindered progress.

During the rest of the conversation concerning Elena’s condition, Loffredo kept his eyes fixed on the menu.

Madame Valois, who seemed well-versed in the particulars of La Maternite, asked if Elena was a wealthy woman, able to make a large bequest.

Serafina felt Rosa straighten in her chair.

Carmela spoke for the first time. “Yes, and she is the type of woman who prefers the company of men, so it’s not surprising she sought out a physician instead of hiring a midwife.”

They stopped talking when a waiter came into the room and refilled their champagne flutes. Another arrived and passed out menus while the sommelier gave the list of wines to Rosa who handed it to Valois and said, “I thought we’d be all night ordering, so the restaurant has prepared a special menu for us.”

The first course included escargots in a light sauce, a goose foie gras, and an asparagus in a light vinaigrette. For the main course they had a choice of several varieties of duck, a shoulder of lamb, or a fish fillet, either cod or sole, and an assortment of potatoes and legumes. The wine list included a Margaux, a Medoc, a Bordeaux and several different Sauternes and liqueurs for the desserts.

Loffredo looked at his menu and smiled. “Different from what I ate last night.” He ordered the escargots to start with and the house specialty for his entree, a stuffed duckling with potatoes.

“When you saw your wife, did she seem different?” Valois asked.

He shook his head. “She was… her usual self, slightly denigrating, a breezy woman, full of energy and well-dressed. She talked of the upcoming exhibit on the Boulevard des Capucines. Now that I’m able to go, I’d like to see it.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Carmela asked, slicing a piece of her lamb and spearing a sampling of creamy potatoes with her fork.

Loffredo smiled, breathing the steam from his plate. He cut into the crispy skin of his stuffed duckling before replying. “I believe it was April 9. She told me she had just had her suspicions confirmed. She was with child.” He took a swallow of his Margaux.

According to Tarnier’s records, that was the date of Elena’s first appointment with him, Rosa pointed out.

“We’ll check with his assistant Monday,” Valois said, “to confirm these dates. Depending on the strength of his reply, we’ll either wait for Tarnier’s return to ask him directly, or talk to Madame de Masson and prepare her for the possibility of exhumation.”

“And then what?” Rosa asked.

Valois stared at his half-eaten meal. No wonder the man was so thin. “I’m not good at speculation. Let’s take one step at a time.” He looked to his wife whose eyes were a sharp blue, even in candlelight.

“Anything yet from the men captured today?”

“We are not finished questioning them, but they insist that their task is protection of Madame Florio and the members of her group, nothing more. So far, they haven’t revealed the name of their employer, but say it is someone interested in maintaining the welfare of all Sicilians in Paris.”

Rosa shook her head.

“Did they confess to stealing the photos from your desk?”

“They’ve confessed to nothing.”

Serafina didn’t think they were the thieves. Why would foreigners have access to a locked office in the prefecture?

“What will you do with them? Can you deport them?” Carmela asked.

Francoise sipped her wine. “I won’t speak for my husband, but as a student of French history, I know the relationship between our two countries is close at present.” She held up two tight fingers. “I’m sure our government wants to keep it that way, not that deporting two unknown Italian citizens would put the trust of our two countries in jeopardy. But I don’t think Magenta would risk even a small rift, not without a stronger reason.”

“Who?” Rosa asked.

“She means Patrice de Mac-Mahon, our head of state,” Valois said. “His help was significant in defeating the Austrians at Magenta. Hence the nickname.”

Serafina nodded her understanding.

“Nonetheless, we’ll keep a watch on the men who follow you while you are in Paris,” Valois promised.

Rosa expressed her gratitude.

Serafina, who had been toying with her food, a succulent shoulder of lamb, arched her brows and said nothing. But she didn’t like this news from Valois. He was nothing if not political, she realized, thanks to his wife who made it her business to smell the wind. Which is why the French wouldn’t use a more persuasive form of interrogation.

She listened to the clink of glasses from the next table as Teo proposed a toast to Paris. “And to Louis Le Grand,” Charlus added. Tessa looked at Teo, and Arcangelo looked down at his plate, but the two young men lifted their glasses and drank. Rosa went over to talk to them. She smiled and removed the wine bottles from easy reach.

There was a lull in the conversation as they concentrated on the food, and Serafina watched Rosa place the wine bottles in the center of their table. Gazing at the other table, she overheard Teo talking about The Hunchback of Notre Dame and wondered if the dust from Quasimodo’s and Esmerelda’s bones still swirled about the stones of the massive church.

Swallowing the last bite of her entree, a stuffed duckling, Rosa wiped the corners of her mouth and reached for the Medoc. She turned to Serafina. “Mark me, these men are on Don Tigro’s payroll,” Rosa said, pouring herself another glass. “He’s still interested in you, and I can’t understand why. He pays you too much attention. Has done for too long and where’s his gain?”

The thought made Serafina’s heart pound. Why did she always walk such a thin line? No one must ever know of the family ties between her and Don Tigro, the secret more difficult to keep now that their finances were so grim.

Loffredo sat next to her, so near and yet untouchable. His wife was either buried in a fresh grave in Versailles or alive and hiding who knew where and with child. Either way, Valois must never suspect their affair. She glanced at Francoise Valois, gracious, effervescent, interested in what everyone had to say. And-more to the point-with a feline cunning, attuned to everyone’s traits, their strengths, their weaknesses, their desires. The woman was a troublemaker, Serafina thought, as she watched the waiters clear the table with deft movements. And she must take care with Carmela whom she caught glaring at her tonight.

Waiters poured coffee. The sommelier brought a tray with several flavored brandies and snifters as the maitre d’hotel followed by the chef in checked trousers and white hat carried the piece de resistance, a flaming glace au four. They placed it before Rosa who cut the dessert into ten large helpings.

When she finished her cake, Carmela sipped her brandy and stared into the flames for a moment. She apologized, but said that for all their traipsing around Paris looking for artists, they were unable to find more information about Elena. “Victorine was not in her studio, and Berthe Morisot was not at the exhibit.”

After saying goodnight to the Valois, they walked through the Tuileries and down to the banks of the Seine, strolling along the quays, happy, quiet, Serafina’s shoulder beginning to ache. Tessa, Teo, and Arcangelo ran ahead, taking the steps down to the river. Rosa, Serafina, Carmela, and Loffredo followed at a slower pace. Serafina longed for some time with Loffredo, to speak or to sit quietly, just the two of them, and ask him about these last few weeks in prison. She sensed his fatigue, or perhaps it was her own, and yet she was reluctant to end the evening.

“We are too serious, all of us,” Rosa said. “Maybe it was the food. Let’s forget this murder and what the French might think of us.

“What does your heart tell you, Loffredo?” Serafina asked.

“My heart tells me what it always has, I love only you.”

With his words, all of Serafina’s earlier concerns, her convoluted thoughts melted away.

Carmela said, “Careful, Mama. Everything is at risk.”

Her daughter’s voice was grating, but she managed a weak smile in Carmela’s direction. “You’re right.”

“I’m the last one who should be telling you to be careful,” Rosa said. “I’ve never been prudent, not once in my life. I built my business, but not by being circumspect. But think well: where will you go to be alone? To Loffredo’s rooms on the Rue Jacob? Will you be free from surveillance? I think not. The sixth arrondissement teems with spies. Or to Serafina’s room, guarded by two French agents de police? You don’t think word will get back to Valois? He’s waiting for the chance to call you a foolish strumpet. Or to Busacca sitting on his vast pile of gold in Palermo? To whoever it is who spies on us? Or to Elena if she is still among the living? To Sophie who prays for you to make such a mistake? To her sons? Go to your separate rooms and douse yourselves with ice water for the rest of this assignment, and I predict you’ll be together for the rest of your lives. If it makes you feel better, walk ahead a little way and make your vows in view of Notre Dame and the god of the Seine while we stand and wait, but don’t breathe too deeply, I smell fish.”

As usual, the madam was right. Serafina stood still and smiled at Loffredo. Her stomach was doing somersaults. She breathed in, and yet felt the need for more air. How strange, it took hearing the right words at the right moment before she knew her heart. She loved Loffredo.

“I dare not kiss you. If I did, we’d soon couple, right here on these rough cobbles. I’m so happy to see you, Loffredo. As God is my witness, we’ll be happy together.”

“I love you, Serafina. Again I’ll say it. I always have.”

Barges on the Seine flowed past. Lovers skirted around them, talking low. Sailors stared at them, and Rosa and her family waited. In time the five bells of Notre Dame began to ring, their deep discordant harmony like the feelings crowding her soul.

Chapter 22: Francoise and Alphonse

He straightened his lapels and faced his wife. “The Sicilian woman was right.”

As if she had not heard him, Francoise smiled. “What a surprise to see you so early. And perfect timing. Two minutes later and I’d have been gone. Come to Louis Le Grand with me. It’s Charlus’ Latin again, I’m afraid. He takes after you. I have an appointment with his professor in thirty minutes. We can walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. The weather is lovely. On the way we can talk.”

They strolled through the gardens, past the Palais du Luxembourg and the Medici reflecting pool with its placid water. Francoise bent, dipping her hand in and quickly withdrawing it. “Too cold still, but the earth warms.”

Valois stopped to gaze at the imposing apartments on the Rue de Medicis. “Someday we’ll have our residence there.” He pointed to the roof garden on the top floor of the nearest building, its awning drawn against the sun.

Francoise faced him, one hand holding the skirts of her French blue day dress. As always, she was magnificently attired. She nodded once, her eyes boring into him, flashing her intellect, giving him the strength of her certainty.

“Let her win and so will you.”

“But Renault-”

“Renault wants the incident settled to the satisfaction of the Italians and the French. As far as he’s concerned, more evidence turned up causing you to reopen the case, and in your brilliant handling you have involved the visiting sleuth. Hold off on questioning the scholar.”

“But perhaps he can identify the gun.”

“Perhaps. But he’s a scholar, interested in books and history, ideas. And you told me he prepares a paper for the Academie des Sciences. Wait until we know for sure that Elena lives, and even then demur. Find an excuse until you’re absolutely sure.”

They turned onto the Rue Soufflot and he was strengthened by her words and the view of the Pantheon, commanding and sure, like Francoise. She whispered the words found on its pediment, “ Aux grands hommes, la patrie reconnaissante.”

He turned to her and lifting her veil, kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Thank you. I must tell her today.”

She nodded.

Together they walked on the Rue St. Jacques. He left her at the school, calm now, continuing up the street toward his office.

Chapter 23: Busacca et Fils

Carmela sat across from her mother in one of the hotel’s many small cafes.

“We don’t know enough about Busacca et Fils,” Serafina said. She slapped the newspaper on the table and took a sip of coffee. The waiter brought out a basket of warm croissants and brioches wafting steam and the smell of bread their way. A ray of sun lit the silver carafe.

“Ricci’s debts bother me. I need to find out more about them,” Serafina said.

“We could ask him?”

“We will. But first I need to understand him and what he does for the firm. And I need you to find out the condition of the Busacca business in Paris.”

“That’s not your commission.”

Serafina bristled, but she ignored Carmela’s remark. “Still, I think it has something to do with the murder. I know what Sophie told me about the three stores here, and I believe her as much as I believe Elena lies in her grave. Do you think you can manage it by tomorrow? By then Valois will want to speak with Sophie, and I want us both to be there, armed with all the information we can learn about her family and her shops.”

A few hours later, Carmela and Tessa entered the smallest of the three Busacca shops. It was tucked away in the middle of a narrow street in the student quarter on the Rue de Verneuil. Like most of the stores in Paris, the facade was lacquered wood, this one painted a light French blue with “ Busacca et Fils, depuis 1282 ” written in script across the top panels. In the lower right-hand corner of the window were the words, Paris amp; Palermo. A few hats were displayed, none of them exciting, all covered with a thin film of dust. The plume on one wafted in the air, and sunlight from the street oozed into the interior.

Carmela turned the ornate knob. A bell announced their arrival. Tessa ran her finger through the film on the tops of tables while Carmela stood at the counter. The wooden floor was in need of sweeping. Tables and chairs were scratched and several of the mirrors bloomed. Carmela turned her attention to the ceiling where an attractive crystal chandelier hung, decorated with filaments from a spider. She looked at Tessa who shrugged and peered into the corners where motes swirled, at the walls where paint peeled.

Carmela presented Busacca’s card to the woman who appeared some minutes after the bell sounded.

“My family is in town on business for Levi Busacca. He invited us to visit his shops and report back to him. The woman took her card and in a moment, a tall, rotund young man emerged from the back, brushing crumbs from his vest. He wore a kippah and morning suit, displeasure written across his puffy face.

“We don’t need your help,” he said.

“I’m not here to help. Your uncle is interested in how his Paris business fares. And as far as help goes, I think you need it from someone. Where are your customers? Where are the hats?” Carmela waved her hand around the room. “There’s dirt everywhere and very few hats in the window, nothing that intrigues me or beckons me inside.”

She could see red rising from his neck, flooding his face. Drops of water appeared on his forehead.

“In this neighborhood, we maintain a presence only. This is the student quarter. Students don’t wear hats.”

“Because you create nothing exciting for them to wear.” Carmela lowered her eyes. “Please excuse my tongue, I haven’t learned the art of conversation. My name is Carmela and this is Tessa. We’re from Oltramari, the birthplace of your ancestors. Mind showing us around?”

He smiled-it was a flicker on the lips, nothing more-and Carmela, no stranger to relationships between men and women, felt the air shift when he looked at Tessa. He ignored her and introduced himself to Tessa. “Monsieur David de Masson, the middle son. My father used to run this shop and sometimes I hear him scolding me, but the voice is soft now.”

“What does the voice say?” Tessa asked.

“It’s easier to cut than to innovate.”

Carmela said she wanted to get to know the three Busacca millinery shops, and she was surprised at the sparseness of the store’s interior, but it was as if she didn’t exist.

“Making hats can be a form of art,” Tessa said, “a unique statement. I like your shop on the Rue de la Paix, but this store has the potential for so much more.”

David examined Tessa’s face, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his stomach. “I had to let most of the staff go. Not enough business. Our head designer does everything now.”

“And you do what?” Tessa asked.

He shrugged, wiping a palm across his beard. Crumbs fell onto the front of his coat and scattered over the floor.

“We’d like to see your workroom, if we may,” Tessa said.

He pointed toward the door with a deflated gesture and led them into the back room.

Musty and dank, the workroom needed a good airing. As she looked around, Carmela was surprised at herself. It was as if she were born with a handful of straw, ready to be woven and dyed, shaped, fitted, and trimmed. She felt her soul leap. Even in this mess, she understood what she saw and the process of designing hats. She didn’t discount David, no. She thought he had a brain, but somehow it had grown dormant, and the store, barren.

A woman sat in the corner, a bit older than Carmela’s mother, sipping her morning coffee and reading the paper by a single gas jet. Next to her was a long table and at the end, two sewing machines. David introduced her as the designer, and she nodded to Carmela and Tessa. Although there were enough gas jets and lamps to light the room, only a few were in use. David’s desk was filled with papers, envelopes, patterns, pieces of felt, some thread and feathers. A half-eaten baguette was perched on top, the montage illuminated by a single lamp. Carmela went to the far wall and opened the windows.

David started to speak, but Tessa stopped him.

“You need air, light,” she said.

David furrowed his brow but said nothing, continuing to stare at Tessa.

Dust lay thick around the room, covering rows of wooden hat blocks in various shapes, stretchers, pressers, turntables for gluing and trimming, powder for making glue, and Carmela wasn’t sure what else she was seeing. One wall was covered with shelves containing bobbins of glazed thread, rolls of buckram, some already formed into crowns and brims of different shapes and sizes, lace, feathers, buttons, horse hair, ribbons, pieces of wool, felt, and netting, rolls of silk, wool, boxes of straw. All the supplies and tools necessary to create glorious hats, but the shop was empty and the hats were forgotten dreams.

“When was the last time your uncle was here?”

David held up his hands. “I can’t remember.”

“And your mother?”

“She comes, but…”

“Let me guess, she doesn’t seem to care,” Carmela said.

“It’s not that, exactly. She is… confused,” David said.

“You have all the supplies you need, and you’re not using them. Why?” Tessa asked.

David blew out some air. “As I told you, students aren’t interested in hats.”

“How can they be? Carmela asked. “They’re aren’t any hats for them to see in the store, not even a beret, just some old general’s ostrich feather wafting in the window. Nothing glittering. Nothing with fine lines, exciting angles, daring color and fabric to tempt them. Nothing to make them memorable.”

“Where’s your fire, man?” Tessa asked, her arms waving. “You’ve made this store into a home for spiders.”

David said nothing. His complexion mottled. He straightened a pile of papers on his desk and rubbed the wood free of dust.

“Can you tell us the quickest way to get to Rue du Mont-Parnasse?” Tessa asked.

“You want to see our store, of course. It’s in a quarter of Paris called Montparnasse filled with students and cabarets. It’s our most interesting store, close to the Boulevard du Mont-Parnasse. Caters to the cabaret crowd. But don’t look beneath the surface because you’ll find debt.”

“Will we find the same disuse?” Carmela asked.

“Perhaps. I never go there.”

“Too much to do here?” Carmela arched an eyebrow.

He folded his arms. “Pay a visit if you must. My brother manages it, but on such a day, he’s probably at Longchamp.”

“Ricci,” Carmela said.

“You’ve met him?”

“Quite charming, I hear,” Tessa said.

David frowned. “Visit, by all means, but I’d like you to return in a few hours.” He slid his eyes to the side where Tessa stood, arms crossed.

After they’d left the store, Carmela shook her skirt free of dust. “He suffers without his father.”

Tessa gave her a strange look. “Perhaps.”

In front of Busacca et Fils on the Rue du Mont-Parnasse, a clown met them in white face wearing a chapeau melon, striped shirt and white gloves. A street performer, he drew a crowd, bowing and producing flowers, scarves, an agitated rabbit. The magician tossed his hat high in the air, catching it on top of his head, stepping aside so that customers could enter.

The store’s windows and red wooden facade gleamed, as did the inside where clerks and designers were busy helping customers try on hats and admire themselves in long mirrors. The store bustled with people and hats, women and men, pill boxes, small vertical feathery things, straw boaters with floppy brims, berets, and small woolen contrivances. There was a display of military uniforms, kepi, tricorns, some weathered and drooping; others, great plumed affairs, smelled of distant battles.

They were greeted by a woman wearing the smart dress of a clerk who had a ready smile. After Carmela asked to speak with the manager, she disappeared. Carmela and Tessa waited, remarking on the difference between the two stores. In a minute the clerk returned followed by Ricci Busacca wearing a morning suit, his long red curls wound in the back and fastened at the nape in a style she’d only ever seen in paintings. He smiled. She introduced herself and Tessa, stating the nature of their business.

“My uncle hates Paris so he sends his emissaries,” Ricci said and grinned, “but this is a charming surprise. I met your mother last week, I believe.”

“And mine too,” Tessa said.

“You prosper here,” Carmela said, feeling a bit foolish.

He led them to his office through a long, neat workroom where several hatters were busy at long tables and asked a young woman sitting at the end to bring them coffee.

“Did he ask you to examine the books?” Ricci asked.

Carmela looked at Tessa. “In this instance, there is no need. We’ve seen your other stores and by comparison-”

“Looks can often fool. I know how to entertain, not how to run a business, I’m afraid. And I’m the first to admit it. But you may tell him we’ve recovered from the worst. The last four years have been hard-the Siege, the Commune, but especially my father’s passing. He was the businessman who knew how to hire good workers, inventive designers. He knew where to shop and how to cut expenses. We lost a lot when we lost him. I know about racing horses and how to charm.”

Carmela looked at Tessa. She was surprised by his honesty and his ability to know himself. He’d show her the books, of that she had no doubt, but she wouldn’t know what she was looking at. Instead, she asked him to pick out a hat for Tessa.

He laughed. “I’m even less of a designer, but let me introduce you to our chief of design.”

They followed him to a desk in the corner of the workroom where a woman of a certain age sat looking through half-glasses at a book brimming with swatches of fabric. Ricci introduced them to Madame Josephine Joyeuse. Pieces of felt lay on her desk as did some peacock feathers, strands of horse hair, netting and lace. At the sound of Ricci’s voice she rose, a tall woman, slender. She had Gallic features and a presence. Her smile warmed the air around them, and her graying hair was pulled up, pinned, curled and arranged in an elaborate French coiffure.

“My friends have come from Sicily on behalf of my uncle.”

Carmela cut in. “And I’d love it if you could design a hat for my friend, Madame Joyeuse,” gesturing to Tessa who wore her teal day dress but was hatless.

“Certainly,” she said, gazing at the hat Carmela wore, a small black pillbox with a spray of dyed feathers and a veil draping slightly over the top and circling down one side. Before they left this morning, Carmela had fussed with it, angled it just so.

“Please call me Madame Josephine. Everyone does. I’m afraid our showroom is a little crowded this afternoon. We must have our clowns,” she said, cocking her head in Ricci’s direction and pursing her lips, “but perhaps we can find a corner where we are not disturbed. This way.”

She led them into a private room with a table and mirror where several hats sat on a rack. A few more were scattered about an overstuffed chair in the corner. The designer asked them to excuse her and returned in a few minutes with several basic shapes, a pillbox, a cloche, a beret, and a straw. In her apron she carried some loose flowers, fruit, feathers, and veils. She dumped these on the table in front of Tessa and began by having Tessa stand in front of a mirror while she looked at her reflection, feeling the fabric of her dress, turning her around, and asking her to sit.

Madame Josephine glanced at Carmela. “You’ve been to our other stores, I see,” she said as she began designing Tessa’s hat, her fingers like the wings of birds in flight, her head cocked to one side.

“Pardon?”

“Your hat. Designed for you at our store on the Rue de la Paix, no? Let me guess the designer, I’ve trained them all, you know.”

“I brought this from home. I made it myself.”

Josephine Joyeuse stopped, straightened. “Lovely work.”

She continued creating Tessa’s hat, placing and shaping the felt just so, rejecting it, picking up a deep cadmium red pillbox instead, pinning, prodding, fussing with speed and dexterity, a hatpin between her teeth. She stepped back to appraise the work, adjusting the angle of the hat, her movements transforming the material, shifting it slightly, pulling it backward, forward, refitting the hat on the head, trying a different veil until she was satisfied. Her touch reminded Carmela of how the voice can inflect words to change their meaning.

“Stand please,” she said to Tessa.

Tessa looked in the mirror and widened her eyes.

Madame Josephine straightened her apron. “Now step back slightly from the mirror.”

Tessa did, and once again saw a change.

“You see how your whole outfit ‘turns’ when you step back, the same way a painting does. That’s how a hat transforms. That’s how you know it works for you.”

On the way home, they stopped in front of Busacca’s store on the Rue de Verneuil and watched as David filled the display with the last of four new hats taken from the back. He’d rolled up his sleeves and wore a black apron. His face was flushed.

The front of the store was spotless. On entering, Tessa breathed the scent of soap and polish.

“No customers yet. It will take a while, but there will be customers, I promise you,” he said, his eyes alive as he glanced at Tessa. “Don’t look in the back, not yet, except I’ve made a stab at the top of my desk.”

They said goodbye, praising his work and promising to return before they left Paris.

He gave Tessa his card.

“Don’t I feel like a cipher,” Carmela said. She smiled at Tessa. “Did you see the way he looked at your hat? You must wear them all the time.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “In Paris, yes. But at home… Just wouldn’t do. How I love this city.” Tessa’s cheeks glowed.

Serafina listened to what Carmela and Tessa had to say about Sophie’s sons and their stores. It confirmed Serafina’s suspicions. “It doesn’t surprise me,” was her only comment. She was interested in the difference between David and Ricci.

Chapter 24: Waiting for News

Serafina had a good idea of who killed the woman in the Rue Cassette and who attacked her in Elena’s apartment, but as she waited for Valois to confer with Dr. Tarnier, she felt the press of time. She decided to act before it was too late, so she wired Busacca.

“Facts in case deliberately confusing. Possible your daughter lives. Letter follows.”

In her letter to Busacca, she brought him up to date on what she’d learned so far-the discrepancy in appearance and class between the dead woman and a countess, the quick burial of the body, the attack in Elena’s apartment, the similarity of the two bullets discovered in the victim’s mouth and in her own shoulder. She detailed the state of Elena’s health before her “demise” and her appointments with the chief surgeon at La Maternite. She mentioned the release of Loffredo who had wrongfully been charged with Elena’s murder. And lastly, while a study of his business was not part of her commission, she believed the distress of his stores in Paris was indirectly related to his daughter’s disappearance. At the very least, Busacca et Fils needed his attention or his business would be left behind other milliners.

Once more she and Rosa combed Elena’s apartment, looking for an address, any clue however obscure as to her whereabouts. They didn’t find a scrap. There was nothing for it but to wait-for inspiration, for truth, for definitive evidence from Tarnier. It was after all spring, the season of hope.

They’d been in Paris a week, and for the last two days talked of nothing but the weather and the food and the sights. Not a bad life, but the pieces had come together in her head and she wanted to get on with the case. The air was warming and Serafina’s spirit was content, the passionate longing for Loffredo dampened for the moment, perhaps because of necessity. It was enough now to be close to him. Truth to tell, she felt empty without him at her side.

So for a few days they enjoyed themselves and forgot about Elena and Sophie and Valois. They argued about the theater, fashion, cuisine, politics. They argued about what made Paris Paris. They never mentioned the future of Sicily. She went with Loffredo and Rosa to see Sarah Bernhardt in Phedre. When Serafina said she didn’t see anything divine about The Divine Sarah, the madam had the effrontery to say, “Too much like you.” They sat in the Jardin des Plantes, in the Tuileries, in the Parc Monceau and in her favorite, the Jardin du Luxembourg. They toured the Gobelins, took a cruise on the Seine. They were happy. Loffredo took them to the studio of Sebastien Erard in the Chateau de La Muette and they marveled at the collection of grand pianos. Perhaps Maria would play one someday.

It was late afternoon when Valois knocked on Serafina’s door. She sent Teo and Arcangelo to fetch Loffredo. They talked of this and that, waiting for everyone to gather.

Valois cleared his throat. “This morning I talked with Dr. Tarnier who said that Elena Loffredo, expecting a child, was indeed under his care. Her last appointment was April 16 at two in the afternoon. Her next appointment was scheduled for tomorrow at nine in the morning.”

There was a hush.

“Why did I doubt you?” Rosa asked.

“So that means either the woman who was murdered in the early morning hours of April 16 was incorrectly identified as Elena Loffredo, or Dr. Tarnier’s patient claiming to be Elena Loffredo is lying,” Serafina said. “You asked to see her signature, of course.”

Valois nodded. “We checked the signature with the Banque de France where she has an account. There can be no doubt: she signed Tarnier’s form.”

“Any account activity?” Arcangelo asked.

Valois blew air out of his mouth the way Frenchmen do. “Not since a thousand franc withdrawal on April 15.”

Serafina shot a swift glance at Rosa.

“What’s the address she gave Tarnier?” Serafina asked.

“Her address on the Rue de Passy. Different from the one on her passport,” Valois said.

“Does she have future appointments?”

“Twice a month until November.”

Serafina composed an advertisement for the prominent daily newspapers- Le Figaro, Le Gaulois, Le Petit Journa l, La Presse, Le Siecle, Le Temps, et L’Univers. It offered a reward for information that led to the present location of Elena Loffredo nee Busacca. While Serafina was convinced that one or two of Elena’s closest friends knew where she was hiding, pinning them down had proven impossible.

At the risk of disturbing Dr. Tarnier again, Loffredo wished to speak with him. He returned within the hour.

“There can be no doubt. Elena Loffredo is with child and alive, at least she was alive on the afternoon of the 16 ^ th,” he said. “The signature is unmistakably hers. She signed documents on April 9 and on April 16.”

“And did you find out why she chose to see a doctor instead of a midwife?” Rosa asked.

Loffredo looked at his feet. “I’d rather not say.”

They were silent and Rosa rang for cafe and sweets.

Chapter 25: A Visit with Sophie de Masson

They sat in the parlor, Serafina next to the fringed lamp, Loffredo closer to Valois, Rosa on his other side. An overstuffed wing chair on the other side of the fringed lamp stood empty, waiting for Sophie de Masson to arrive.

Serafina stared at a square of sunlight on the slightly worn carpet beneath her feet and slid her eyes to Loffredo who sat still and at peace. He must have felt her eyes on him for he smiled, glancing quickly at Valois who cleared his throat. Serafina curled her toes, warming them. Her boots creaked and Rosa shot her a look. The madam folded her hands in her lap, her face inscrutable, her hat slightly forward and angled to one side, the way Carmela had placed it on her head that morning.

As on their previous visit, the butler entered and apologized for the delay, slicking the side of his pomaded hair and glancing at Rosa. He was followed by a maid who poured tea from a porcelain pot, offering them dainty tarts and chocolate bits arranged just so in that stiff way of the French-some of them, Serafina corrected herself. Steam rose from china cups, swirling in rays of sun. She occupied her mind with the play of dark and light. While they ate their tarts, the others talked of the weather. It was warm for April, Valois assured them. His remark was followed by silence except for the jingle of spoons and the distant sounds of the street. Serafina wiped her mouth with stark white linen.

“Jesse James was married Friday, I read in Le Figaro,” Valois said, and put down his cup, rattling it against the saucer.

“Who?” Rosa asked.

“A North American. He robs trains and banks,” Valois said. “Notorious but well-loved by the people.”

“Many in our town leave for the new world, and I fear for them,” Loffredo said.

Serafina wished she spoke French as well as he. “I think it’s a mistake, their going to the Americas, the North, especially-such a lawless land.”

“Not all,” Valois said. “New York is safe, and one can make a good living there. It is the west that is full of bandits, like your country. The James gang, for instance. But now the Pinkerton Agency is after them. They learned detecting from us, you know.” He beamed.

“Everyone learned detecting from you,” Serafina said. She smiled. And as for New York, she wasn’t about to disabuse Valois of his misconception, but she knew otherwise. The immigrant neighborhoods were ripe grounds for the picking, and men like the don were at the ready.

“Mark me, they’ll find him.”

“No doubt. And we’ll get to the bottom of this mystery,” Serafina said, looking at a tear in the wallpaper. Her tea was untouched, her stomach doing somersaults. She suspected Sophie kept them waiting on purpose, and her mind left the conversation about the bank robber and the Americas, focusing instead on Elena and where she could be and who was helping to hide her. Would Sophie reject their claims as preposterous or be contrite and admit her folly in identifying the dead woman as her niece? Was it a mistake on her part or willful obfuscation to identify that poor prostitute as her niece, and if so, why?

The patch of sun had moved to another spot in the carpet when Sophie entered the room, this time in black bombazine and on the arm of her lady’s maid. Serafina and Rosa exchanged glances while the men rose. Instead of greeting each one of her guests, she nodded around the room while she moved her mouth from one side to the other as if chewing her thoughts.

After the servants departed, Valois began to speak. Serafina watched Sophie’s face for her reaction.

“New evidence has arisen concerning the woman slain on the Rue Cassette,” the inspector said. “We think she was a woman of the streets, not your niece. The proof is strong enough to warrant exhumation of the body.”

Sophie let out an involuntary shudder and moved in her seat, looking not at Valois or anyone else in the room. Her right hand began to tremble and she quickly grabbed the arm of her chair.

“This cannot be. My eyes fail me, that is true. There is a hole in the center of my vision and it grows, but with this loss, my other senses have been heightened. I know my niece. I touched her face. It was Elena I identified in the morgue, and I stand by it.”

“How did you know it was she?” Loffredo asked.

“I know my niece. I keep in contact with her. Unlike you, I care for her. I give her the support of a family who loves her, despite her unusual behavior. It was the shape of her head, the side of her face, the color of hair, the scent she wore, that above all, her perfume. I’d recognize it anywhere, even in that pathetic morgue.”

Loffredo squared his shoulders. “Elena has a reaction to perfume. She doesn’t use it, never has.”

Flustered, Sophie lashed out at him. “You’re a poor excuse for a husband. It was because you couldn’t fulfill your duty that she traveled to Paris and sought the company of other men. And when you decided, finally, that you wanted her home, when you could no longer have the young women you so desire, you came to Paris to bring her back. And when she wouldn’t return to that sordid country of yours, you killed her.”

Loffredo sat unmoving. He stared at Sophie, his gaze unwavering. Serafina wanted to get up and slap her, and she could have, too. She wanted to rip her elaborate coiffure to shreds, but gathering strength from Loffredo’s reaction, she stirred once and stole a glance at Rosa whose face was flushed as she looked down.

“Elena has a birthmark beneath her right ear. Did you see it?”

Sophie turned to Valois. “Why do you persist in this folly?”

The inspector was calm. “Because we have proof that Elena Loffredo was alive some twelve hours after the woman you identified as your niece was murdered in the Rue Cassette, and I suggest you do not fight the order of exhumation. It will look like you have something to hide.”

“You, sir, are not my attorney.” She rang the bell.

“A valid point.” Valois ran a hand down his lapel. “But I suggest you consult with him. Right now you have four witnesses to your defamatory remarks. Persist, Madame, and I will take you in for questioning.”

When the butler arrived, Loffredo took his top hat and gloves from the servant.

Valois grabbed his chapeau melon. He nodded to Rosa and Serafina. “For now we are finished.”

Chapter 26: Brasserie Bofinger

“I can smell Bofinger from here.” Rosa turned to Valois. “Dine with us as our guest.”

Serafina felt Loffredo’s hand on her back, warming her as he helped her across the street, guiding her to the small Alsatian brasserie. She smiled up at Loffredo and for a second, wrapped her good arm around his waist. “We need to talk,” Serafina said. “Will it be private enough for us?

“I think so, it’s a small bistro, but the food is excellent and they serve all kinds of sausage and meats, fish, seafood, sauerkraut,” Valois said, “and they have the best beer in the city. We need a break from that horrid woman.”

Serafina was beginning to like Alphonse Valois. “You walk often, Inspector?”

He nodded. “As much as I can. Especially when I need to think. I found Madame de Masson’s reaction quite…”

“Remarkable?” Loffredo supplied.

“Has she always shown such antipathy toward you?” Serafina asked.

Loffredo nodded. “She was against our marriage, especially Elena’s conversion. She blames me for Elena’s behavior.”

Valois shook his head.

The madam hung onto her hat. “You’ll love this brasserie, at least I did the last time I was here. It had just opened and a friend and I had an intimate table in the back. They had tall waiters with blond hair, almost as delicious as the food.”

They were seated right away at a round table in the small bistro. Serafina sat to the left of Loffredo, her good hand free to roam. Each ordered a beer and watched as the bartender filled four mugs with a rich yellow liquid from a barrel. The waiter brought them to their table on a small round cork tray, the foam bubbling over the sides and the glasses sweating. Taking out a pad wedged between his apron and shirt, he licked the tip of his pencil and stood poised to take their order.

“Please don’t choose some delicate fish and gentle wine,” Rosa said to Serafina. “This is Alsatian. Order hearty food.”

“I’ll have what I want. I always do.”

“Not always,” Rosa said, with a meaningful glance at Loffredo.

Loffredo reddened into the menu. “I’ve eaten here. The food is excellent, and whatever you have will be a treat. You can’t make a mistake.”

Serafina looked at the madam while she ordered the wild cod served in a tomato sauce with a side of beans, delighted at Rosa’s response, an expressive roll of her eyes. Loffredo chose the calves liver in onions with steamed potatoes, Valois a beef fillet with pommes frites and a side of a creamy mustard, and Rosa, the lamb stew with vegetables served over mashed potatoes. She asked the waiter to bring them a side order of sausage.

They were the only people in the small room, the hour late for dining.

In a few minutes, the waiter returned with four plates, the sizzling sausage, and a side of sauerkraut.

Rosa cut into the meat and dipping her fork into the sauerkraut and mustard. She took a large bite, the sides of her face bulging, washing it down with a gulp of her beer. Loffredo cut a piece and passed the plate to Serafina who took a bite, savoring the rich, spicy meat, listening to the crack and spit coming from the plate.

Rosa reached into her pocket. “Enough of this silence. We’re the only customers and Sophie won’t leave my head. I found these in Elena’s kitchen.” She plunked the promissory notes into the middle of the table.

The paper sat, accusatory, another confirmation of what Serafina knew. She said nothing, but when her good hand wasn’t resting on Loffredo’s leg, she sipped her beer. It making her head spin a little and she felt giddy, waiting for Valois’ reaction to the notes.

“Who is Ricci de Masson?” he asked after he read one of the notes.

“Sophie’s youngest son,” Rosa said.

“Engaging, I might add,” Serafina said. “We met him the day after we arrived in Paris while we waited for Sophie, remember?”

Rosa nodded.

“Do you know him?” Valois asked, directing his question to Loffredo.

Before he could answer, two waiters in starched aprons cleared their table and brought their entrees, taking orders for refills. Serafina declined more beer, but Valois, Rosa, and Loffredo ordered a second round.

“To answer your question, yes, I’ve met him and I like him. A lost soul who thinks he can win vast sums of money by betting on the horses,” Rosa said.

“He speaks in poetic terms about Longchamp,” Serafina said. “He’s an endearing young man.”

Loffredo shrugged. “Most members of the Busacca family become angry when they hide something, I’ve noticed. What do you think Sophie’s hiding?”

“Not just that family. Many people become irate when caught,” Valois said. “But you’re right, she was an angry, broken woman.”

“Did you notice the warn spots in the carpet, the split in the wallpaper?” Serafina asked.

Valois nodded.

“Why did I miss that?” The madam’s eyes narrowed. “Lucre rears its ugly head.”

There was silence while Serafina scooped cod and tomatoes onto her spoon, breathing in the melange of spices.

“I think Sophie is angry she’s been caught out. And she’s angry her sight is failing,” Rosa said, eating a forkful of stew and sipping her beer. “She’s an old woman who tries to preserve the past, and her children are not interested in business.”

Serafina told Valois about Carmela and Tessa visiting the Busacca millinery shops and what they’d found. “Except for their flagship store on the Rue de la Paix, they are mismanaged.”

“Ricci spends when he shouldn’t,” Rosa said. “The middle son saves when he shouldn’t. Sophie fears the future and counts her money twice.”

Serafina ran a napkin around her mouth and pushed away her plate. “So you think perhaps Sophie made an honest mistake? Because of her failing eyesight she couldn’t see the distinguishing features of the body, and since she was in the Paris morgue, a frightful place, she wanted to get the ordeal over with quickly?”

“I do,” Rosa said. “But somewhere, somehow money changed hands. I hear the ca-chink of conspiracy.”

Valois looked at Rosa and smiled.

Under the table, Loffredo reached for Serafina’s hand. A powerful shock passed between them, too strong for Serafina to resist. This time she wasn’t about to let go. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stand the celibate life much longer. She looked at Valois whose face was unreadable only because there wasn’t much there. The inspector took a large gulp of beer and set the glass down rather noisily, sat back and smiled at Serafina. He was feeling the beer, too. She prayed that she and Loffredo would not make a slip, but it was a small prayer. Meager.

“What do you think, Loffredo?” she asked, running a hand up his thigh.

“I think Sophie’s has a part in the plan,” he said, wiping his forehead. “She helps to hide Elena. I think… Elena lives, but she is not in Paris.” His breath came more rapidly. “I’m not sure why Elena wanted to disappear. Perhaps her ruse is a dalliance, a way to shock, and the family, for a price, supports her.”

“That’s an interesting theory, Valois said. “You talk of conspiracy.”

Loffredo stopped talking and looked out the window, his eyes bright, his nostrils flared. Then he shot forward in his chair and loosened his cravat.

“Are you all right?” Valois asked, noticing the beads of sweat on Loffredo’s forehead.

“Perfectly fine. Perfect. Something went down the wrong way. Just give… me… a… moment.”

Rosa hiked one corner of her mouth. “Be careful,” she said, under her breath, narrowing her eyes at Serafina and taking another bite of lamb.

Chapter 27: Le Coup de Grace

After the meal, they said goodbye to Valois. He said he would get word to them when the order of exhumation was complete.

“About how long will it take?” Serafina asked.

Valois gave a Gallic shrug.

Rosa asked to be excused, saying she’d forgotten she was to meet Tessa and Carmela who wanted to show her an artist’s studio. The three agreed to meet at five o’clock in the Luxembourg Gardens.

Serafina and Loffredo found themselves alone.

“I’m going to explode,” he said.

“But what can we do?”

“Valois is an innocent-he suspects nothing-and Rue Jacob is filled with students. It won’t take us long. We have to… or we won’t be able to think. I’m mad for you.”

They found a cab and were in front of his hotel within the half hour.

“I was afraid you’d never want to, never again,” she said, but stopped at the door and turned.

There it was, that feeling at the nape of her neck. Glancing down the street, she saw one of the men who’d been following her, the one wearing the leather jerkin. He was peering into a shop window on the Rue Jacob.

She wondered why Valois had released them. “I’ll meet you in a moment,” she said over her shoulder, picking up her skirts in her good hand and flying across the street toward the man. Her heart pounded and her hair, straining against its pins even in the best of times, loosened, red curls flying everywhere, into her eyes, down her back. Panting, she vowed she’d get him, she’d tear the bugger apart, bad arm be damned. She’d had enough.

The neighborhood was crowded and a horse cart blocked her way-stupid, idiot man, she’d rip off his limbs-even one-handed, she would. Waiting for the chance to move, she jumped up and down so she wouldn’t lose sight of him. She worked her way behind and around the cart’s rear wheels only to be engulfed by a group of students also trying to cross. They jostled, laughed, and she began to see the humor of her situation, but her focus remained on the man in the jerkin He hadn’t stirred. Her blood was coming to the boil.

As she drew closer, the man saw her, jerked away from the window, and started to run. Anticipating his flight, she hiked her skirts higher and ran him down, catching him by the scruff of his neck and latching onto his ear, pinching it with all her might.

Then the world slowed as if she were in a ballroom dancing with Loffredo and she, moving with the stately grace of a ballerina, shook the shadow back and forth, back and forth. He hung in her vision like a caught bird as he pleaded, his words too slow and unintelligible. As he wrenched and struggled, she waited for her chance and when it came, she slammed a knee into his groin, brought it up faster than she thought she could move.

She’d hit home. The man folded into himself. Someone yelled, “ le coup de grace,” and the crowd roared. It was the culmination of the dance. She was still holding onto his ear, digging in with her fingernail, when he screamed and bent in half, pulling her down, both of them tumbling to the ground. He moaned and held onto himself and rolled while the crowd cheered. Breathing hard, her hair like a witch’s lair, she grabbed him by the leg and pulled him across the rough cobbles out of the street and away from traffic. Then she pulled him up and leaned him against a building. The crowd clapped.

“Police… were… too gentle. I’m… not,” she rasped. “Tell me

… who… pays you…”

“Let me go!”

“Tell me who pays you!” She grabbed him by the hair, pulling and twisting.

“Tell her!” a bystander cried in falsetto and the knot of students guffawed.

“The don,” a voice said, familiar. She spun around and saw Loffredo moving toward her, holding the other shadow. He gripped the man’s neck and pushed him forward, a sergent de ville by their side.

Loffredo brushed his coat and trousers, ran a hand through his hair and stomped the dust from his boots. “He’ll take them away,” he said, motioning to the policeman, and he knows to consult with Valois.”

After she’d calmed and he smoothed her hair, they walked the streets of the sixth arrondissement watching the people of Paris and enjoying each other and the weather. They walked on the quay and gazed at the Seine. They walked through the gardens-first, the Jardin des Plantes, his favorite, then the Jardin du Luxembourg, hers. There was no banter. They walked arm in arm, his spirit somewhat weighed down and tugging at hers, keeping them both close to the ground.

For the first time since their arrival, she felt herself free from the burden of the two who followed them, and not just in Paris, either. But it took Paris for her to realize what terror her family, like most Oltramarians, had endured because of the don.

Chapter 28: A Small Shop Near the Seine

Serafina dispensed with the arm brace. Had she done so earlier today, she would have had an easier time dealing with the men who followed her. The scent of lilacs filled the air as she and Loffredo entered the Luxembourg Gardens, arms around each other, the pretense of mere friendship set aside. If they had to wait for the order of exhumation, Paris was the place in which to dally.

They found Rosa sitting on a bench while she studied the racing section of Le Figaro. The madam was beginning her campaign to visit Longchamp, Serafina figured. The paper dropped to the ground as Rosa looked up at them.

“At least you could have cleaned up afterward.”

They told her about catching the shadows.

“But I don’t understand why he would he send them all the way here just to spy on me,” Serafina said. “Quite an expense, and to what end?”

Rosa picked up the paper. “He knows about your large retainer from Busacca.”

“How would he?”

“He knows everything.”

“As it is, we can’t afford to pay protection money for the apothecary shop.”

“Have you heard from your children at home?”

A vision of the fire in Boffo’s Cafe intruded itself, unbidden, unwanted, the acrid stench invading her mind as the image of a menu, its words engulfed in flames, crumpled into ash, another grim reminder of the don’s destruction. Boffo told her he hadn’t paid his fee to the capo’s men for the past three months after customers dwindled and he couldn’t come up with the coins. She stuffed the memory.

“Carmela keeps in touch. According to Vicenzu, everyone’s fine.”

Despite the weather, Serafina felt a chill, but she couldn’t worry about the don, not now, she told them. “We need to assess where we are.”

Rosa began. “We have three unknowns- who was the dead woman in the Rue Cassette, who killed her, and where is Elena.”

“In addition, we have two more unknowns-who shot me, and who stole the photos of the dead woman. I have a hunch they are the same person, certainly not the don’s men.”

Rosa picked up the racing form. “Add a sixth unknown-why did Sophie identify the dead woman as that of her niece?”

“Might have something to do with the blindness in the center of her vision or her son’s gambling debt,” Serafina said. “She’s hiding something. Otherwise why would she have lashed out?”

Rosa shook her head. “The Busacca family’s loaded. Discharging those debts would be like paying the butcher’s bill.”

Serafina wasn’t so sure, especially after hearing Carmela’s assessment of their stores.

The sun was in her eyes, but she stared at the fountain, listening to the sound of the water splashing against stone. She was in love with the Luxembourg garden. It was less formal than the Tuileries and more sheltered from the noise of traffic, and tended to so beautifully. The French had taste, she must admit. But more important, at least for her spirit-in Paris she found great swaths of peace, and the people seemed relaxed. So different than they were in Oltramari.

“What else do we know for sure?” She stared at the rows of trees in the middle distance, their leaves dappled with sun, and smiled at Loffredo who gave her a gentle hug and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and felt the rejuvenating spring and wondered how many of these moments they’d have at home.

“Be careful, both of you,” Rosa cautioned.

Not like the madam, Serafina thought. “We know the woman buried in Elena’s grave is not Elena. We know we were followed by two of Don Tigro’s men, and we know why.”

“Go on,” Rosa said.

Serafina rolled her eyes. “And we know that whoever stole the photos from Valois’ desk did not want us to see them because we’d know the dead woman wasn’t Elena.”

“That’s a leap,” the madam said. “But we know that Elena paid Ricci de Masson’s gambling debts, a considerable sum.”

“One of the nicest thing I’ve heard about Elena,” Serafina said. “And we also know that the bullet taken from my shoulder was almost identical to the bullet retrieved from the dead woman’s mouth.”

“We know that the dead woman was not with child, but riddled with syphilis and would have died in a matter of months, this from the mouth of the medical examiner,” Rosa said.

This was new information for Loffredo, and he seemed visibly shaken. For a moment he stared out, unseeing, absorbed in his thoughts.

Two couples walked past their bench, the women in day dresses of beautiful silk, talking conspiratorially, the men walking some distance behind. Serafina stared at two boys playing jacks.

“So we have six knowns and six unknowns,” she said. “And the most important?”

“We don’t know where Elena is,” Rosa said.

Serafina nodded. She told them about the advertisement she’d placed in the daily papers a few days ago. “It runs each day for the next ten days.” She passed a copy to Rosa.

They were silent while Rosa and Loffredo read the classified.

“I don’t think it will do much good, but I tried it, just in case.” Serafina felt her temples begin to throb. “All might be cleared up if we could find Elena, so that’s what we must do.”

“We agree,” Rosa said and Loffredo nodded. “As soon as we exhume the body and prove it beyond doubt.”

Serafina worried her lower lip. “There were three paintings by Paul Cezanne, do you remember them?”

Rosa shook her head. “I liked them all. Different. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“A lot. The three I’m thinking about weren’t painted in Paris or in a place with the same light.”

“Listen to those painters talk and they’ll have you believing that each moment the light is different,” Rosa said.

“Not quite the point I’m trying to make. The light and the feeling are so different in Cezanne’s paintings. They have nothing to do with Paris except perhaps for that reclining nude.”

Rosa pointed her finger in the air. “Now I remember them. But what does that have to do with anything?”

Serafina looked at Loffredo. “Didn’t you tell me she had an apartment in Aix?”

“Yes, but that was several years ago, during the Franco Prussian War. She fled the city along with her friends. I don’t think she’s kept it. Why would she? All her friends are in Paris.” He wiped his face with his palm.

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“And don’t forget, I found an envelope addressed to Elena, an address in Arles,” Serafina reminded them.

“Quite a distance between Arles and Aix, at least seventy-five kilometers, I think,” Loffredo said.

“In the south of France, a perfect place to hide. Why do her friends think Elena is not dead? Someone must be hiding her.”

“Or perhaps they are in their own world,” Rosa said. “They don’t seem to like her very much.”

“How do you know? You’ve talked to Carmela who spoke with only two of them.”

There was a silence. Rosa looked at her watch and said she must meet Tessa in Pere La Chaise.

Loffredo looked at Serafina who told him about Rosa’s infatuation with Murat.

After the madam left, Serafina gazed at Loffredo. Not given to ebullience, he was even more taciturn than usual. Indeed, he wasn’t talking unless a question was directed his way. It was as if a weight lay upon his spirit, and Serafina realized he was grieving. She could tell by the way he looked into her eyes. Still hungry for her, yes, but not with their usual mirth.

“Still, I think we must concentrate on Elena. She’s disturbed; she’s pregnant.” Serafina looked at Loffredo. “And she has an illness, or at least there’s a reason why she’s behaving erratically.”

“Not erratic behavior on Elena’s part, not for her,” he said, shaking his head. “She is flighty, whimsical, dramatic, outre.”

“I haven’t spent enough time thinking like Elena, other than going to the exhibit and seeking out her friends there. What would she do during the day? Go to the Tuileries, the Luxembourg?” Serafina ran a hand through her curls. “How about The Parc Monceau? La Muette?”

Loffredo shook his head.

“What are her favorite restaurants? Where did she shop? Did she collect old books and prints, silver? Pretend I’m Elena,” Serafina said, and knew by his look that she’d made a mistake.

Loffredo snapped his head back as if she’d hit him, but then the smile she knew so well lit up his face, and he began to laugh, and some of the day’s heaviness lifted. Some, but not all. She felt the flatness of his spirit return, covering him like a blanket, and remembered her mother’s counsel, her mother who lived a life learning to shore up her father’s low spirits one day at a time. “In the end, you must let them have their moods,” she’d say, and shake her head. And she’d let her father stay in his study for days. But she, Serafina, did not have that luxury. She needed to find Elena, and she needed Loffredo’s help. “Pick a place, any place. What did you do the last day you were with Elena?”

He was silent, but she could tell he was thinking.

She gave him more time to collect himself. “The exhibit was so important to Elena and to her friends. It was a turning point in their lives, a watershed. Finally after working so long and so hard, they banded together, or most of them did, and hung their most important works. Consider the visual impact of this exhibit, especially on Elena. For the first time, hundreds of paintings by a new school of artists could be seen for the first time. It must have been a clamoring. It must have had shattering effect on Elena, flighty and impressionable as she is, like the firing of a battle’s first cannon shot. She may have felt left out, passed over.”

“You mean, no one was paying attention to her,” he said.

It was Serafina’s turn to laugh. “That, too. It might have caused her to change tack, to try and alter her life, to act in an extreme fashion.”

“Extreme? That’s the way she always was. But I know what you mean.” He nodded slowly.

She felt his mind begin to work on the problem.

“And don’t forget, she’s pregnant, and I know what that’s like. Poor lost Elena,” Serafina murmured.

“The last time we were here-that was a few years ago. She called me to Paris for a ball, I forget which one. At that time she was trying to make a general jealous. It was right after the Commune, and Paris had been devastated-over twenty-thousand needlessly slain-but afterward, the city put on its summer finery. The days were long and despite the coppery smell in the air-the blood had not yet sunk deep enough into the soil-the people, well, the people were happy to be alive. It was enough to be out of the house, greeting neighbors, walking in the warmth and sure-footedness of peace. Elena sent me a note to meet her here, and I did, over by the Medici pool. At that time Elena had an apartment near the Luxembourg and used to walk here often.”

He paused and Serafina swept her eyes around, at the sandstone gravel paths straight and lined with trees, at the Palais du Luxembourg where men with shovels were planting and weeding the beds of exuberant flowers, at the Parisians dressed in the latest style. They were everywhere, strolling arm in arm, sitting on benches, the children laughing, running, shouting.

“But Elena being Elena, grew restless, asked me to walk with her. We took the Rue Bonaparte all the way to the Seine. On the little streets surrounding the Ecole des Beaux Arts, we went into all the little shops and she bought what she loved, prints, old books, candelabra, large swaths of fabric, small paintings. I realized that she wanted me with her so I could carry her parcels.”

He looked at Serafina with such warm, sad eyes.

“Did she know the shopkeepers?”

He thought a moment. “Many of them, I believe she did. Arranged to have her living room painted or the walls treated.”

Serafina stood and smoothed her skirt. “Then we must go. We must talk to all of them.”

Rosa looked at her watch. “We have a few hours until most of them close their shops for the evening.”

Loffredo, Rosa, and Serafina walked into the late afternoon sun, the shadows growing, the streets and sidewalks thick with people, most smartly attired and purposeful, probably heading home. They passed the Place St. Sulpice and the bells sounded the hour. They kept walking through the student quarter to Saint Germain des Pres where Serafina stopped in front of the facade and said a prayer to the Virgin to help her see the truth. They walked to the Quai Voltaire and whispered to the Seine, Loffredo planting a chaste kiss on her forehead. Happy to be in each other’s company, she and Loffredo walked the many side streets, looking into shop windows, occasionally pointing to something that piqued their curiosity or pleased them.

“Here’s one. She knew the proprietor and bought art books and prints from him.” They entered a small shop near the Seine, cheek by jowl with antique stores and book sellers.

The wooden facade gleamed with a new coat of paint and shellac in the blue color Serafina associated with Paris. Perhaps the French were the only ones capable of creating it, an ultramarine so deep there were purple overtones. The gold script proclaimed, “ Thomas d’Automne et Fils depuis 1836 ” and in the window were displayed thick tomes containing plates of paintings by David, Jean Auguste Ingres, Delacroix, Gerome, Poussin, Fragonard, and surprisingly Edouard Manet, but none of the other new painters. Strange that Elena would frequent such a traditional shop, but then she remembered the prints she’d seen in her ladies’ parlor, reproductions of paintings by David.

As they entered, Serafina noticed the shop had a few tourists paging through books. The walls held floor to ceiling books. Behind the counter, she saw hundreds of small drawers with brass pulls, no dust, but the exquisite odor of finely crafted paper and binding, the scent lingering and high pitched, along with the unmistakable smell of sandalwood and old leather. Something about the store yellowed the light, antiqued the world and made it turn more slowly.

Loffredo’s face was inscrutable.

Presently a short, round man with a mustache, white hair, and bushy black eyebrows emerged from the back.

He frowned at them. “Do I know you? Now let me see,” the man said, combing his mustache with a thumb, “I recognize you, young man, but not this woman.” Serafina detected a wry smile.

“Forgive my appearance,” she said.

“An encounter with some Parisian ruffians,” Loffredo explained.

The man was somewhat solicitous. Also wary.

“We’ve come to ask you about one of your customers, Elena Loffredo.”

The proprietor furrowed his brows. “Give me a moment.”

They were silent until the man remembered.

“The countess, no?”

They nodded.

The man cocked his head. “Now when was the last time she was in the store? Hmm.” He thought for a moment. “I could look it up, but if you bear with me…” He stared into the space beyond his customers. “Could have been March. Yes. Wasn’t yet spring, but a hint of spring. Students still puffing their breath, I remember. The light, silvery.” He closed his eyes. “And she came into the store, drawn by the David plates. I had them in the window at the time. Impeccably attired, I might say, as always. Yes. She bought three prints, portraits, the Comtesse Vilain and her daughter, the portrait of Madame Recamier, and the portrait of Emilie Seriziat and her son. Said they were for her ladies’ room. She wanted them framed, she trusted my taste. They were to be hung on a small vertical wall adjacent to her desk. She said she was particularly haunted by the portraits of the women with their children.”

“How did she seem to you, in a hurry, wistful, flighty, haughty?”

“I… really couldn’t say. Except… how should I put this? The countess could be all of those things in the space of a few minutes.” He smiled, gave the question greater consideration. “At peace, I’d say. Not flighty, no. At peace. She said she felt the world changing around her while she stood still. She’d had quite enough of doing this and that. She said she needed to do something with her life.”

Chapter 29: An Evening with Les Mardistes

Serafina was thinking when Carmela burst into her room and said, “Elena may be painting in the south of France.”

“Explain.”

“What happened to your hair? You’ve been with Loffredo, haven’t you?” And Carmela spit out his name as if she were the mother and Serafina, the wayward child.

Serafina remained calm, neither denying nor apologizing. “Tell me how you know Elena is in the south of France.”

“Don’t change the subject. You and your lover, that… Elena’s husband, because of your selfishness with him may have just ruined your reputation. You are beyond repair. Our family will be devastated. As it is, we hang by a thread. You don’t know what’s going on because you don’t want to know.”

She saw herself in her daughter’s rant. Perhaps it was because she was physically spent by the afternoon’s efforts, or perhaps it was because she was purged of emotion by the fight with the don’s spies. Perhaps it was because she knew her own heart, or perhaps because of how well the investigation was proceeding, but she wasn’t angry with her daughter, not in the least. Serafina marveled at how Carmela’s temperament matched her own, emotions raw and quick to come to the boil and with such a tongue. But Carmela was unsettled. She must help her find herself and in so doing, help to save the family which she knew was in peril. Sicily could no longer support their work. The don would never give up. They must make a decision. She must help Carmela find something special, work close to landscape design.

“Loffredo and I were together this afternoon, you’re right, but not in the way you mean. Sit next to me. Tell me what you know about Elena. If she’s alive, we need to find her.”

“Teo, Arcangelo, and Tessa were the ones responsible for finding the artist who knew her,” Carmela said, sitting down and visibly subdued.

“How?”

“I’m not quite sure, but the three of them spend their days near the exhibit on the Boulevard des Capucines. I think Arcangelo and Teo walk around the area while Tessa goes inside. They’ve gotten invitations to many of the artists’ studios that way. Some, Tessa said, do work she admires. Others, not so much. If they ask, she tells them she’s an artist with a studio in Italy and would like to study in Paris. But most of the time she talks to them about their work and they are thrilled to show it to her, unless of course they are deep into their painting and then they don’t respond.”

Carmela paused and smoothed her skirt.

“Of course,” Serafina said. “Go on.”

“Today Tessa met Paul Cezanne-he has some works in the exhibit.”

Serafina nodded. “With a southern feel.”

Carmela seemed surprised at the remark. “Tessa told him how much she loved his work, the lines, the color, the feeling-you know how Tessa talks. She asked him about his palette, how he mixes paints, stretches the canvas, what size he works in, like that. Anyway, he gave her his card and invited her to visit his studio on the Rue de Vaugirard. They ran back to the hotel for me, and the four of us got quite a tour. While Tessa and I were asking him some technical questions, Arcangelo and Teo looked at all the canvases, his brushes, his stretching tools, the rolls of linen in a corner, his work area. The light in the room was breathtaking, the colors, the smell of gesso and linseed oil-I shall never forget it.”

Serafina nodded then imagined Arcangelo in the studio. “He can’t see colors, you know.” She smiled.

“I know. He sees bright colors, he told me, but not subtle gradations. How much of life he misses.” Carmela continued. “Teo saw a painting lying in the corner, very different from the rest of Cezanne’s work. It wasn’t his work, the artist told Teo, but belonged to a friend, an aspiring artist. Cezanne said he tried to encourage his friend to paint, to attend one of the many ateliers associated with the Ecole des Beaux Arts, but she wasn’t interested. Time was running out for her, she told Cezanne, and anyway she wasn’t interested in what the school had to offer her. She wanted to paint, to do nothing else, to immerse herself in the world of sight and art, but confessed that she became easily distracted. ‘A countess, you know, flits here, goes there,’ he told Teo.”

“So how does he know she’s in the south of France?” Serafina asked.

“I’m getting to that. He told her the best thing for her would be to get away from Paris, go someplace where she wouldn’t be distracted, and paint. ‘Paint, paint, paint, until your eyeballs drop out of your head. Then paint some more’-his words. He suggested the south of France, perhaps Arles or Aix. She thought she might just do that, leave everything and disappear for a year. The canvas was signed Elena Loffredo.”

Serafina was silent for a while. “And you didn’t press him? Did he seem to withhold, know more than he told?”

“Perhaps,” Carmela said, “but I’m not like you. I don’t have the art of drawing people out.”

“Nonsense.” Serafina looked out at the scene below in the Place du Palais Royal but saw only the thoughts in her head. If Elena were alive, she had disappeared, left a kitten in her apartment to starve. If that was the case, how depraved had she become? If she disappeared, it would be to change her life in a major way, not as a lizard changes his skin, but a change from the inside out. Would she do that? Could she do that? What had caused her to think this way? How would she fare without her friends? Did any of them know about this plan, other than Cezanne? If she was in the south of France, how would Serafina find her? How could Elena have gone there without all of her friends knowing?

“What did you think of her painting?”

Carmela shrugged. “I’m not the one to ask. I can’t criticize another’s work. Tessa called it muddy. The composition was beautiful, but the overall impression was… of someone just beginning to paint.”

“What do you think we ought to do?”

“Tessa began talking to him about her work and he invited all of us to attend a salon this evening. He called it ‘ Les Mardistes ’ because it meets on Tuesdays at the home of Stephane Mallarme on the Rue de Rome. He thought if she were still in town, Elena would be there, and if she wasn’t there, perhaps someone else would know her whereabouts. He said the salon this evening would be well-attended because Pissarro and his wife planned to be there, an attraction, especially for the group of painters he formed.

“Will Cezanne be there?”

“Of course. And he thinks that many musicians will attend. Mallarme is a symbolist.”

Whatever that was.

“What should we wear?” Carmela asked.

“One of your new dresses, of course, the indigo would suit your eyes and hair. You’d stand out in the crowd, I believe,” Serafina said.

“I don’t want to stand out. I want to blend in. From our visits to the artists’ studios and to the exhibit, from the dress of women in their work, I think the women’s outfits will be unique, colorful, stylish without being slaves to the latest fashion. I think the clothes we wore on the trip with a tuck here, a slight change there-they’d be more appropriate than the new dresses Giulia created for us.”

Rosa walked in. “Wear what you want and make it unique, a reflection of your soul, and don’t make such a fuss.”

Serafina sent a note to Loffredo telling them where they’d be that evening and asking him to please join them, but he declined, saying he’d wait for their return in the hotel lobby because he had something important to discuss.

In the end, they dressed the way they wanted, but with help from Giulia who was summoned at the last minute. The daughter who had come to Paris to work at the heart of high fashion altered this, tucked that, changed the jewelry they chose to wear and created unique costumes. They looked like free spirits. Well, almost.

An hour later, Serafina’s group stood in the middle of a high-ceilinged room with large windows on one wall overlooking a park. They huddled together, and as they looked around, they found all kinds of attire, all of it interesting. Most of the furniture had been pushed aside to accommodate the large crowd. Guests stood in small clusters or sat on the floor conversing, or pushed seats into a corner, sitting close to one another. The talk was earnest, the mood ebullient. A few windows had been opened to freshen the smoke-filled air, and a spring breeze wafted inside, along with sounds from the street, the clomp of horses, the belch of a train.

Most of the guests were artists, that was clear. All were scrubbed for the event and in their finest clothes, ready to absorb the program they knew would be a part of the evening.

“My daughter is a painter and longs to study in Paris,” Rosa said to the man with a long white beard. He and his wife had just been introduced to them by their host, Stephane Mallarme, a small man with a goatee and warm, intense eyes.

“Then she should ask to join l’atelier Julian, just for the basics you understand,” Camille Pissarro said, turning to Tessa. “There you’ll learn proportion and perspective, how to mix color. All theory, no art. But don’t stay more than a year. It will ruin your soul if you try to ape the classics. That’s what the Salon does not understand. We love the classics, Rembrandt, David, Ingres, but we reject convention. The world has moved on, thanks to us. It is by concentrating on line and color, the quality of the light, by drawing the edges of what you see, the shape of the objects that you wish to paint, mademoiselle-this is how to become a painter.” His wife nodded and smiled.

“I love your work, the peace of the country, the quality of the brush strokes. It’s as if I’m inside the frame, breathing in the scent of apple blossoms, or wiping the snow off my boots.”

Cezanne joined them. “Listen to what this man says. Pontoise, indeed: all of France has changed because of him. Our movement, you will see, will revolutionize art and thought.”

Serafina was lost in the meaning of his words, but listened to the emotion behind them. She wondered how she might change the subject to something more, what to say, more earthbound and practical, like where to find Elena. The man the others called Camille and his wife broke away with a smile and were engulfed in a knot of artists waiting to greet them.

Serafina and her group were interrupted by a woman with a tray of canapes and deviled eggs. She directed them to a table filled with other hors d’oeuvres and drinks-more trays heaped with crudites, trays with a selection of cheeses and fruits, and of course bottles of beer and wine. Visitors swarmed the table.

“Get some food now before it’s gone. This is a hungry crowd,” their host said.

“Hungry for words, you mean,” someone said.

“Hungry for meaning.”

“Hungry to feed our souls.”

“Hungry to attain the highest perfection.”

“Hungry for music.”

There was no way to change the subject, unless she made it happen, Serafina realized and was about to ask someone, anyone about Elena when Carmela broke in.

“Excuse me, but we came to the party not only to be at the heart of artistic thought, but to search for a friend of ours from our home town. I wonder if you know her, Elena Loffredo,” she said to a group gathered around them.

No one replied until a painter said, “I’d love to paint you, your hair, such golden reds, your skin, so lovely.”

Serafina frowned at his threadbare jacket, the smudge of paint on the collar of his shirt and his purple nose. She heard a few others reply to Carmela but couldn’t catch the words, except for the pleading man in painter’s smock.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Arcangelo, somehow separated from Teo, bending toward a woman who was trying to talk to him, the woman stumbling slightly and sipping from a wine glass, refilling it herself from the bottle she held in her hand. She touched Arcangelo on the cheek with full lips and watched as he pulled at his sleeves. Serafina grabbed Carmela and the two went over to rescue him.

“I asked her if she knew Elena,” Arcangelo said, rouge smeared on his cheek. His face was flushed, his eyes, pleading.

“Victorine,” Carmela said, “how lovely to see you.” She introduced Serafina. Rosa joined them.

“We hear that Elena is in the south of France.”

“Who told you? Weren’t s’posed to say anything.”

“Oh well, we knew but not from anyone in the room. Arles?”

“Not sure. Arles or Aix-en-Provence, someplace down there. Think I might have the address in my studio.” She gulped her wine. “Woman thinks she’s a painter. Nonsense. Fraud. Slut. What does she know of painting, of… posing?”

Serafina watched her, fascinated. Her face was divine. She could see why artists loved to paint her.

“But poor, lost Elena. I don’t blame her. She’s at the end of the line and knows it. If you want to see real art, come to my studio, I’ll show you.”

“We’d love to, Carmela said. “When?”

She waved a hand. “Anytime.”

“But give us the address. Tomorrow?”

Victorine gave them the address of her studio on the Rue Maitre Albert. “You know it? Small, narrow street. Left bank, hidden. The quiet of Paris afternoons gathers in my studio.”

“We’d love to see your work.” Remembering Victorine had offered once to show Tessa her studio but hadn’t shown up at the appointed hour, Carmela added. “We’re looking for works to add to our collection.”

The rest of the evening was a drag for Serafina. The talk was too heady for her, and she longed to be with Loffredo. Besides, she’d gotten what she wanted. One look at Tessa, however, and Serafina knew they must stay. Mallarme recited his poetry to a hushed audience. Afterward he introduced, a young boy called Debussy, a twelve-year-old student at the Paris Conservatory. They rolled out a grand piano from the far corner and the boy sat and played. Serafina thought of how much Maria was missing and of how cruel she’d been not to let her daughter come with them.

Chapter 30: Les Halles

Serafina gazed around the large lobby, looking for Loffredo who said he’d meet them there, but she didn’t see him. She examined her watch, close to midnight. Perhaps he’d gotten tired of waiting for them. She didn’t blame him. They were tired, but also hungry. “Famished,” was the word Rosa used.

In a few minutes she saw Teo and Arcangelo talking and laughing with someone in the far corner of the room. Loffredo. He smiled at Rosa, came around to Carmela and told her how beautiful she was, then to Serafina and took her in his arms.

“I’ve been waiting all night for you.”

“Let’s go to one of the restaurants in the hotel and we can order-”

“I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “I want to show all of you a sight you won’t believe. But you must promise to tell Renata about it.”

“Do they have food?” Rosa asked. “All we had to eat were some little doughy things. And the conversation, you wouldn’t believe. Lucky you weren’t there. Tonight I’ve been buried in words, words that mean nothing to me.”

“Artistic thought, it was enchanting,” Tessa said.

“I know, my pet. But it’s hard for my mind to soar without food. This place better be good,” Rosa said to Loffredo.

“You can order anything you want, and it’s a place that never sleeps. Vendors come from all over France. It’ll be an experience you won’t forget.”

Carmela, Tessa, and Rosa needed to freshen up in their rooms, and while they waited for them, Loffredo told Serafina about his evening with Valois.

“We went in search of the man that accompanied Elena the night of the opening. You gave it to me, an address on the Rue d’Assas. And when I looked to find it on the map, I noticed it was next door to a monastery.”

“You talk of Etienne Gaston.”

He nodded. “His home is directly in back of the Rue Cassette, near the spot where the murdered woman was found. I could imagine someone carrying the body through their gardens, out the back gate and dumping it onto the Rue Cassette.”

“And have the police begun to question him?”

“Not really. He and Valois exchanged polite conversation, that’s all.”

Serafina told him she’d spoken to Gaston. “He was the man last seen with Elena by her friends, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure about him. He loves Elena, or at least had a passionate affair with her, but she toyed with him and her behavior inflamed his fury. I could see him killing her in a jealous rage. He had motive, means, and opportunity. And yet…” She told him of the couple’s intimacy on the night of the murder, Elena’s disappearance, Gaston’s walking the streets of Paris to assuage his turmoil. “He saw the murdered woman in the Rue Cassette, told me he’d bent over her body to make sure she was not Elena.”

“His means?” he asked.

She told him about the revolver he said was missing from his desk. “And as yet, the police do nothing.”

“Not surprising. He’s an important scholar. If the crime had been committed in Oltramari, he would not be questioned at all.”

“But then, neither would you,” Serafina said.

“So why are you unsure about him? You think he may have murdered the woman in a state of madness, thinking she was Elena?”

“It’s possible.” She told Loffredo about seeing Elena’s dress in the storefront of a nettoyage a sec on the Rue Cassette, of learning that Gaston had taken the garment there to be cleaned. “And he lied to me about that, and about how long he and Elena were together.”

Loffredo brushed a hand over his chin.

They sat in silence, gazing at one another.

“What do you think happened to Elena? You must have seen her change. Think back on the first time she left for Paris. All of a sudden she decides to leave Oltramari. Had she been talking about it for some time? Did she take a trip and when she returned? Did she seem wistful and then leave and never come back?”

He planted a kiss on Serafina’s cheek. “Why do you want to know? Why all of a sudden?”

“It’s important, a very important question, something I need to know in order to understand what happened to Elena. I’m on the brink of putting it all together, but I’ve neglected a very important piece-her moods.”

“Well…” He thought for a moment. “Hard to remember, it was so long ago. Elena was always hard to pin down. She was a selfish woman.”

“Is a selfish woman,” Serafina corrected.

He nodded, smiling a little wistfully, she thought.

He continued. “She is petulant. Moody. I never knew what her reactions would be to anything, where her mind, her head would be. Trust me, she always was a surprise. I mean, always. Her father, you know, her father tried to capture her mind, mold her character.”

“To a point.”

“Yes, he tried to a point. Elena was spoiled. And now I understand what spoiled means. Her parents ruined her life,” he said.

“In a sense, they killed her,” Serafina said.

They were silent for a time.

“But her father did try to involve her in his business. This was long before I met her-he told me the story. And she was making progress understanding millinery, but all of a sudden one day she left the store and didn’t return. Never. He asked her why, and she had no reply, barely remembered working for him at the shop. He said he’d furnished an office for her where she spent a good deal of time learning about the business and fabrics and meeting their suppliers and working with the designers. But suddenly she became a different person. She decided that millinery wasn’t for her and hadn’t bothered to tell him.”

Arcangelo listened, his attention unflagging.

Loffredo turned to him. “Have you ever met such a person?”

“Yes. My grandmother. We had to move her to a hospital, I don’t know if La Signura remembers, but we lived in our own home and all of a sudden she thought she was one of La Signura’s women and she asked La Signura for better clothes. She said she needed a fancier nightgown. She became belligerent. We were embarrassed. Finally we had to bring her to Santa Maria, the hospital the sisters ran, you know the one I mean. But she was losing her mind. That’s what Papa said.”

Startled, Serafina stared at him, then at Loffredo. A volume passed between them in a second.

By this time Carmela, Rosa, and Tessa had returned and were listening to the conversation.

“So when one day she announced she had tickets to Paris and wanted to live there, I was surprised, but not astounded. This was Elena. I remember telling her I couldn’t possibly leave my practice and she told me that she didn’t expect me to live there with her, that she wanted to explore other paths. That’s how she put it, and in the next few minutes, she was gone. She had a small bag packed before she’d even talked to me. I looked out and saw the carriage waiting for her. She’d gotten the ticket on her own, and the first time she told me was when it was time to leave.”

“Left all her frocks behind?” Rosa asked.

“Everything. Her jewels, her clothes, her shoes, her purses, everything.”

“So departing suddenly for the Midi is something in keeping with her character?”

He nodded. “A sudden and total leaving. That’s in keeping with her character, if you can call it that. Not the painting part. I’ve never known her to be so intent on an art form. After all, being an artist involves years and years of study, of painting hours every day, hard labor, many skills must come together. It’s a unique way of seeing the world. And the artist’s vision and endless labor create and perfect a unique style. It’s work, hard work, endless work. Elena was not ever into work. So that aspect is new for her. She gets an idea and changes so rapidly. But now I think she’s become too enthralled with herself. She is her own caricature.”

“Let’s go before we’ve passed breakfast and missed yet another meal,” Rosa said.

“Place St. Eustache, driver.”

“This better not be a church,” Rosa said.

The drive took only a few minutes. In fact, they could have walked. And when they arrived, Serafina could not believe her eyes.

“These are the pavilions of Les Halles, the teeming heart of Paris,” Loffredo said.

“It looks like the teeming stomach of Paris to me,” Rosa said, a smile on her face.

“And if you’re interested in eating the freshest of foods, there are restaurants and cafes here where we may feast,” Loffredo said.

Serafina breathed in, smelling onions and vegetables, the earth, fish, meat, lilacs, lavender, the distillation of flowers from the south, the honest sweat of farmers and fishermen, whoever worked as vendors selling to the restauranteurs, the hospitals, the people of Paris. People were everywhere, men in berets with cigarettes dangling from their lips, young boys in shorts, women in long black skirts and homespun aprons, their hands swollen from work. They packed the streets around a rotund cast iron edifice in front of two other pavilions. Workers unloaded large covered horse carts, piling produce onto wagons pulled by men and even some women into the stalls. The stalls were filled with flowers, with great slabs of meat, with cheese, with fish perched on ice, their tails turned up with freshness. Horns honked. People yelled to one another, their voices swallowed up in the great volume of air. The sounds cascaded off of cast iron pillars. People stomped in every direction. Buyers swarmed around the stalls, the vendors weighing and bickering and wrapping the produce.

“You’ve eaten here?” Serafina yelled to Loffredo who was standing next to her.

“I come here to lose my worries after escorting Elena.”

They passed a small bar open to the street, a few tables scattered outside. Pedestrians skirted around them. At a table sat a man and woman, both disheveled, both bleary, quite drunk, the man especially. He had ragged hair and red and purple capillaries. He tried to stand but was unable. In their glasses was an opaque white liquid.

“Absinthe drinkers,” Loffredo said. “The ruin of many.”

Serafina could see the moisture in her daughter’s eyes.

Carmela looked at Loffredo as if seeing him for the first time. “I’ve misjudged you. Forgive me.”

“Please, don’t trouble yourself. I love your mother. You think I might take her from you. And I just might. I understand your fear.”

Rosa rolled her eyes. “Show us a restaurant before I faint. You know it so well, you pick it out.”

“We want to walk around,” Teo said. He and Arcangelo disappeared.

“If you lose us, you know the way back to the hotel,” Serafina called after them.

Loffredo took them to a bistro in the pavilion with starched tablecloths and waiters in long aprons holding round trays. They were seated in the front where Teo and Arcangelo had a better chance of finding them.

“Order what you want, it’s on me, but please consider the onion soup. You won’t have a better bowl,” Loffredo said.

“Sorry, I cannot let you pay,” Serafina said. “Let Busacca buy us dinner.”

They started with the soup, dipping crusty pieces of warm baguettes into the hot broth, loading them up with onion and cheese before savoring the rich flavor and slurping them into their mouths. Serafina said she was content with the soup and perhaps she would try one of the pigs feet. Loffredo and Tessa ordered the same. Rosa decided on a slab of beef smothered in fat, swimming in juices, and surrounded by potatoes, carrots, and onions. When they returned, Teo and Arcangelo ate sausage and sauerkraut after finishing a bowl of pea soup.

They rose to leave, tired and happy. Serafina could see the night sky disappearing, a smear of pale cerulean and rose madder in the east. She smelled the morning, heard the tired shouts of the vendors. Another day.

Serafina’s head ached. It was past noon. She’d had no cafe, and the others were not yet awake. It was not how she imagined being in Paris with Loffredo, sitting in the lobby of the Hotel du Louvre with him and talking about Gaston with Inspector Valois, repeating her words of last night.

When she was finished, Valois, who’d written everything down, said he’d send a few of his men to bring him in for questioning. “Perhaps today.”

Serafina nodded. “I know he prepares an important paper. He intends to address the Academie des Sciences on some matter or other. It sounded important and I have it in my notes somewhere, but you’ll forgive me, I’m not quite-”

“I took Madame Florio and her party to Les Halles last night,” Loffredo explained.

“After we’d spent the evening at the salon they call Les Mardistes,” Serafina said, and summarized what they’d learned there from Elena’s friends.

“When Carmela said she’d heard Elena was in the south of France, a painter’s response was ‘Who told you? Weren’t supposed to say anything.’ Carmela’s at the woman’s studio now to see if she might have Elena’s address.”

Valois made no reply. He rubbed his lapels and narrowed his gaze. Serafina noticed a tremor in his hand.

“But I called for you on another important matter. The order of exhumation has been issued by the court, a rabbi summoned, and the body is to be unearthed one week from tomorrow in Versailles. Because he examined the body, Dr. Melange will also accompany us. I’ve contacted Madame de Masson. She sent word that she and her two sons will be there.”

Serafina felt tired, not elated.

Valois seemed subdued.

There was a knock and Carmela entered. She threw her reticule on the bed and crossed her arms. “I traipsed all the way to Maitre Albert and that woman wasn’t there. This is the second time. How can she paint when he’s never in her studio? Impossible!” She turned and saw Valois. “Forgive me. I had no idea.”

“I’ve told the inspector we’re searching for Elena’s address in the south.”

“We have an old address in Arles, but Loffredo thinks she’s no longer there. In the past, she’s let an apartment.”

“Perhaps we may be able to help,” Valois said.

Chapter 31: Versailles

Their mood was somber. Dressed in black, they stood in the chill on one corner of Madame Sophie de Masson’s estate. The gates of a small cemetery were open. For centuries it had been the burial ground of the Parisian branch of the Busacca family. They were surrounded by formal French gardens, classically posed statues, and ornamental pools similar to those at the Palace of Versailles. Trails of mist hung low on the ground partially covering the grass, the walkways, the shrubs. The moisture seeped into her bones. Serafina’s feet were ice as she crunched them back and forth in the gravel. She heard birds calling to one another in the near distance.

The casket had been lifted from its stone enclosure in the ground and placed alongside the freshly dug earth, the cover not yet removed. It sat on a platform, waiting for the medical examiner, the rabbi, and a representative of the court to begin the process of exhumation. David and Ricci Busacca flanked their mother. Beniamino was not present. David glanced at Tessa. Loffredo, Serafina, Rosa, Tessa, and Carmela stood on the other side of the bier, the officials in the center.

“Are all assembled?” Valois asked.

Serafina nodded.

“Wait!” someone called, alighting from a voiture de grande remise. They turned to the abrupt sound of his voice as Levi Busacca limped into view.

Sophie visibly shivered and clutched the arms of her sons.

Busacca touched his hat to Serafina and stood by her side, his face grim.

Serafina introduced him to Inspector Valois. In a few moments he nodded to the two workers who began opening the casket. Serafina stared at the ground, listening to the creak of wood breaking the silence. It seemed to take forever.

“You will each file past and look at the deceased,” Valois said.

Sophie turned away, shaking her head, a linen to her throat, but the others peered inside, shaking their heads. Serafina held a handkerchief to her nose and mouth, trying not to inhale when she leaned in to view the corpse, now well into the process of deterioration.

“Sophie, how could you have identified this woman as my daughter?” Busacca asked. He turned to Valois. “Remove the body from our family plot and send my sister a bill for all expenses incurred. And I mean all investigative expenses.” He turned to Serafina. “Grim but necessary. Excellent work. Meet me in three hours in the lobby of the Hotel du Louvre.”

“They tricked me, Loffredo and his lover,” Sophie whined. She stood before them, an old woman, her finger accusatory.

Serafina blanched. Valois looked from Loffredo to Serafina. Carmela bit her lip. Rosa looked at the ground. David continued to gaze at Tessa.

Busacca’s face was crimson. “A shameful lie, but the Florio woman is too smart for your tricks. You fooled only yourself. My daughter’s not in her tomb, not yet. But her spirit is dying, and you’ve taken advantage of her. Her disappearance is another of her whims, a bid for

… whatever it is she seeks. Instead of helping her and warning me, you’ve made her perversity far worse.”

“But don’t you see? That woman and Loffredo took advantage of my poor eyesight.”

“You’re not worth any more words.” He limped away, looking straight ahead.

Valois thanked the officials, told Madame de Masson that he would like to talk to them tomorrow. “I want all three of your sons present.”

“Tomorrow is impossible. I must see to my work.”

“Then I will have two policemen take you into the prefecture for questioning.”

After the noon meal, they sat in Serafina’s rooms around a table. Several waiters served them cafe and an assortment of sweets. Busacca looked tired.

Rosa asked for cafe au lait and a large slice of cake. “Something cold on the top and perhaps some chocolate sauce on the side. And a cookie or two. It’s a shame to be in Paris and not sample.” She turned to Busacca. “Nice to see you again, Levi,” she said through her cake.

As they sat munching sweets, Busacca asked how Serafina discovered the ruse.

“I began with the feeling that something was wrong. I came too late to view the body-your sister made sure of that. That was my first clue that there might be a cover up. A gnawing question plagued me. Why would Sophie insist on the burial of a Christian in accordance with the Jewish laws? That was closely followed by the fact that none of Elena’s friends knew of her death, and I thought that was strange. I still suspect that one or two know where she is and are hiding the truth. Although the press didn’t cover the murder, why wouldn’t the family notify at least one of her companions? And then there was the discrepancy of the dead woman’s clothes and personal hygiene, decidedly not those of a countess. Suspicious events kept piling-the theft of the photographs and the plates of the dead woman’s face. The more we were prevented from uncovering the facts, the more I was convinced that Elena was not dead.” Serafina told him details of the attack in Elena’s apartment and what she’d discovered about Elena’s lovers and her pregnancy.

Busacca was noticeably moved. “So I am to be a grandfather at last. I beat Sophie.”

Serafina’s smile was wan. She looked at Loffredo who shook his head.

“Our sources tell us Elena changed her will shortly before she disappeared,” Rosa said, “naming the chief beneficiary as your sister.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up and he rang the bell. “I’ll find out the truth.”

There was a knock on the door and a maid entered. Busacca scribbled a note and handed it to her. “See that this is delivered to my lawyer,” he said. He wrote the name of the firm and address and gave the paper to Serafina. “In case you have questions.”

“It’s not against the law to change a will. But if part of it includes an insurance policy and Sophie tries to claim the money, that will be important information as far as Valois is concerned, assuming she colluded with Elena to contrive her death and assuming Elena is still alive,” Serafina said.

“So we’re left with another mystery,” Busacca said, “Is my daughter alive and if so, where is she and why has she disappeared?” He reached into his satchel and pulled out a large book, wrote a cheque, handing it to Serafina.

“Instead of finding her murderer, I want you to find my daughter. Apparently you’ve already started the search. Any leads?”

She shook her head and showed him the notice she’d run in seven daily papers. “No responses.”

He wasn’t surprised, he told her. “Her friends don’t bother reading, but I’m prepared to offer a reward. Re-run it, advertising the amount of five thousand francs for credible information.”

Serafina glanced at Rosa.

“From what a few friends tell us, I think she might be in the south of France. The exhibit of a new style of painting, the work of many who are her friends, has made an impact on her. I think it provoked a deep response and she wants to be a part of it.”

“So she’s hiding somewhere and painting?” Busacca shook his head.

Rosa leaned in closer and eyed the cheque in Serafina’s hand, a note for triple her initial retainer. Serafina folded it and put it in her reticule.

“Cable me if you need more. I won’t ask for an accounting, nor do I expect a happy outcome. Quite the contrary. I believe my daughter is behind her own disappearance. I can only imagine what laws she’s broken. Of course if you could rescue my grandchild…”

“We’ll do everything possible, Levi.”

As Serafina watched, Busacca slumped. He changed from a business man to a beaten soul, his eyes haunted. “Ultimately, this is on my head. She was my daughter, perfect in every way, and I showered her with gifts, slowly killing her spirit.” He turned to Loffredo. “Look at me. I’m a father who has failed. I’ve managed to kill my own child.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Rosa said.

His eyes began to water. “You are too kind. Even so, if she turned up today, I’d take her in and love her.”

He turned to Loffredo. “I suppose you’ve done an adequate job putting up with her all these years. Still, with the right sort of man, someone she loved… But there I go, trying to blame someone else when I’m the one who ruined her. I made her incapable of loving anyone other than herself, if you can call her self-regard ‘love’.” He got up to leave and put his hand out. “I’ve misjudged you, I’m afraid.”

He turned to Serafina. “You’ll find my daughter, of that I have no doubt. I’ll be in town for some time, untangling the financial mess I found in the Paris stores. The business belongs to me and to Sophie in equal parts, but she’ll agree to do whatever I tell her. It’s time she collected an allowance.”

He stopped, seemed to notice his tea for the first time and took a sip, wincing. “If her sons can’t handle the stores, I’ll find others who can. And I want to speak with your daughter, Carmela. I arrived yesterday and had a long chat with an old friend, Madame Joyeuse.”

Carmela sat next to Serafina. Her eyes were moist, her cheeks red. The others were waiting in the lobby. They planned to celebrate.

“Levi Busacca wants me to start working with Madame Joyeuse,” Carmela said, suppressing a smile. She grew more animated. “She told him I was a natural designer.”

“Who’s Madame Joyeuse?”

“The chief designer for Busacca Millinery. I told you about her last week. She’s the one who trained all the other designers. I think Busacca hired her long ago and he has a regard for her design.”

“And she has a high notion of your design based on what?” Why couldn’t Serafina be more pleased for her daughter?

Carmela cupped a hand to her chest. “The pillbox I made for myself, the suggestions I made while she was designing a hat for Tessa. And I told Busacca to his face what I thought of his millinery-at least the stores in Paris, I don’t know about the store in Palermo.”

“I remember your telling me that the world of fashion is changing, but his stores are being left behind.”

She nodded. “That’s what I told him, I didn’t care what he thought of me. I had to be honest. He wants me to work with Madame Joyeuse while I’m here. I’m to talk to her, and together we’ll agree on a salary. But I don’t think he’s returning to Palermo right away.”

Serafina smiled. Finally, Carmela had come into her own. But her smile soon faded. She needed Carmela.

“And as soon as the case is over, I’m to cable him the date of my return to Oltramari. He wants to train me himself. He wants to show me the whole operation, how to buy, where to buy, how to hire designers. I’m to oversee all the stores.” She stopped, looking into Serafina’s eyes, pleading. “I told him I couldn’t promise that I’d like that kind of position, but I’d love to design for him.”

“He told me I must be an innovator. I must lead the other designers. Far more exciting that mere design.”

“But we have so much still to do,” Serafina said, hearing a whine in her voice not unlike Sophie’s high-pitched accusations in Versailles. “We must find Elena and discover who killed the woman on the Rue Cassette, and I need you by my side. How can you help me and learn millinery at the same time?”

Serafina wished she could take back the words. She was spoiling her daughter’s news. And it was the first time she’d seen Carmela happy, really happy, the first time she thought her daughter had a future.

“Forgive me,” Serafina said. “I was thinking of myself. You must see Madame Joyeuse this afternoon. Now.” She wrapped her arms around Carmela. She tried to tell her how happy she was for her, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Carmela hung her head and walked away.

After she left, Serafina went to the window and looked out at the bustle of Paris, the stamina, the style, the gaiety. She wished it would seep into her soul. She wished she could be a more loving mother.

There was a knock on the door. Rosa.

“We’re waiting for you in the lobby and you sit here. We haven’t eaten and. Do something with your hair, will you? Where’s that Gesuzza?”

The day was gray, but not Serafina’s heart, not when she saw her family waiting for her. She took Loffredo’s arm and they walked out of the hotel.

“Where are we going?”

“To eat, where else?” Rosa said.

“Too late for a noon meal, too early for dinner,” Teo said.

Arcangelo pulled his sleeves. “I know a small cafe.”

“How would you know a cafe?” Rosa asked.

“I remember passing it. They’re open day and night.”

“The man who opened the restaurant was from Palermo,” Teo said.

“So he’s the one who taught the French how to cook,” Rosa said. “I knew it.”

They hailed a cab. “Rue l’Ancienne Comedie,” Arcangelo said.

Chapter 32: Cafe Procope

“We want the best table in the house,” Rosa said. “Someplace where we can talk without being disturbed.” She slipped the waiter some francs, and he smiled.

“This way, please. He led them up a narrow flight of stairs.

As they passed a tricorne displayed on a shelf, Loffredo pointed to it and said, “Napoleon dined here. That’s his hat.”

Arcangelo reached out to it.

“Not for touching,” the waiter said.

When they were seated, Serafina told them she had a bit of news and summarized a note Busacca sent to her stating that he’d been in contact with his lawyer. There was to be a reading of Elena’s will on May 16, one month after her death, but the lawyer told Busacca the terms.

“Elena changed her will, making his sister sole beneficiary.”

Rosa arched one brow and looked at Serafina. Serafina stared at Loffredo.

“I’m not surprised. I knew she was going to change it,” he said. “She cut off my allowance some time ago.” He didn’t show distress, seemed like he’d been expecting it. Serafina wondered how he’d manage to live in his villa close to Oltramari’s piazza without Elena’s money, on the meager stipend the state paid its medical examiners, but he didn’t seem worried.

In his note, Busacca also mentioned that Sophie had already applied to l’Assicurazioni Generali of Trieste requesting payment according to the terms of a life insurance policy that Elena had taken out some time ago.

Serafina told them she’d taken Busacca’s note to Valois.

Rosa straightened. “Arrest an old woman for fraud? I’d like to see Valois do that. In Sicily it wouldn’t happen.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Loffredo said. “If what Busacca says is true, l’Assicurazioni’s lawyers will swoop down and carry her to the gallows in their talons. And don’t think they won’t find her in Paris.”

“Valois asked if we’d found Elena.”

“And you told him?”

“Not yet.”

“So if we’re finished with lawyers and free spirits, let’s eat,” the madam said, wrapping a knife on her glass.

“This restaurant is almost two hundred years old,” Loffredo said. “Poets and kings have dined here.”

They studied the menu.

“I’m not that hungry,” Serafina said.

“You always say that. Where’s Carmela by the way?”

Serafina told her about Carmela’s plans to work for Busacca.

“Good for her,” Rosa said. “She has a love of color, a flair, a way of summing up. It all comes together, and Busacca needs help or the business his ancestors founded six hundred years ago will disappear. He could use a good accountant, too. Did you tell him about Vicenzu?”

“We need him to run the apothecary.” Leave it to the madam to understand Busacca. “You seem to know him well. Was he a customer?” Serafina asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He loves his wife. They don’t deserve what their daughter has become.”

“He blames himself.”

“He would. But his daughter is her own person,” Rosa said. “I’m lucky. I have the perfect daughter.”

Tessa blushed.

Loffredo looked happier now that the truth was out about Elena. He sat next to Serafina and studied her face, her hair.

“We’re here to dine, Loffredo, not to make love,” Rosa said.

Tessa’s blush deepened. Arcangelo looked at Teo, his eyes wide.

“We’re also here to plan,” Serafina said. “Last week Victorine gave Carmela the address of her studio. I have it here. We might pay a visit. It’s not far from here, one of the narrow streets near the Seine in the sixth arrondissement, I believe. She’s one of Elena’s friends, but alas, unreliable. Carmela’s gone to her studio several times and she hasn’t been in when she said she would be. But I think we should keep trying.”

“I’ve met her, I believe,” Loffredo said. “An artist, but like Elena, difficult to find. I hope we have better luck this afternoon.”

A waiter in vest and apron came to take their order.

Rosa studied the menu. “Just a snack you understand. We’ve missed the noon meal, but we want to have a full meal tonight. Your menu is so tempting, I don’t know what to choose.”

“Then I suggest some of our excellent pate to start, and perhaps two bottles of wine, a Cabernet and a Medoc. You’ll want to try our dessert. Everything we serve is delicious, but we are renowned for our pastries.”

“You would be. Monsieur Procopio was born in Palermo,” the madam said and adjusted her hat.

The waiter nodded.

“I know what I want,” Loffredo said. “The coq au vin here is delicious.”

Arcangelo and Teo ordered the same. Tessa wanted to try the trout served with almonds and boiled potatoes, Serafina ordered salmon and a small salad, and Rosa ordered the gnocchi and sea bass.

“Any response to the advertisement?” Rosa asked as she watched the waiter bone her bass.

“What are you talking about?” Tessa asked.

Serafina told her about placing a notice in the papers, asking for information about Elena. Their food arrived, succulent and steaming. Serafina was amazed at the cuisine. She thought soon they’d have a meal not up to their high standards, but as yet that had not happened. She had to admire French cuisine. She straightened, wishing Gesuzza had not tightened her corset so much. Besides, small waists were no longer the style. She’d have a word with Rosa after the meal.

All talk stopped while they were served, but when the waiters left, Tessa told them she’d found the studios of Renoir and Degas. Neither artist knew Elena, although Degas said there are a few wealthy women, hangers on, who come to his studio from time to time, usually at inappropriate times.

“His studio was a mess, Mama, it looked like he’d never cleaned it,” Tessa said, taking a bite of her trout. “But my favorite is Renoir. So handsome, charming, too, but he’s interested only in painting.”

“Had he heard any news of Elena?” Serafina asked. She speared some lettuce and smiled at its flavor as she took a bite.

Tessa shook her head. “And I also knocked on Victorine’s door, but there was no answer.”

Teo wiped sauce from his lips. “Why don’t you send me and Arcangelo to the south of France looking for Elena?”

Serafina shook her head. If she sent them now, they’d flounder, she explained. She had no leads, nowhere to point them to begin the search, and the south of France was vast.

Loffredo agreed. “We have an old address for her in Arles, another in Aix. She stayed there during the Siege, but they’re both apartments she let some five years ago. She gave them up when her friends moved back to Paris after the Commune.”

Conversation stopped while busboys cleared the table and waiters brought cafe and desserts, a collection of sweets.

“Something the cook made for you, Madame,” the waiter said, and presented Rosa with a silver tray filled with cannoli, enough for everyone, in addition to their orders of profiteroles and bowls of creme brulee and piping hot cafe. The madam bit into one, and the shell crackled, pronouncing the cannoli shells passable.

Serafina showed Loffredo the envelope the concierge had given her. It contained the notice La Presse had run along with a letter written on what Tessa said was charcoal paper, a grayish blue tone, smudged in spots and written in crude block letters. “I know where she is.” It was the only line, and it was signed by Zacharie Honore with an address on the Rue Maitre Albert, close to Victorine’s studio.

The street was narrow, the neighborhood quiet on a hazy afternoon when Serafina and Loffredo knocked on the door and waited. And waited some more.

“Another chasing of the wayward goose. I’m beginning to think we’ll never find her,” Serafina said. “Let’s go, I’m so sorry.”

They’d gotten halfway down the street when someone called out, “Yes?”

Turning back, they saw the head of a young man with ragged hair.

“We search for Zacharie Honore.”

“You see him before you,” the man said, wiping his palms on the sides of his pants.

He smelled of oil and turpentine and his breath was foul. Serafina moved back a few paces. She noticed that his shoelaces were missing. His neck, face, and hands were dirty, a failed painter with blotchy skin and a purple nose. She looked at Loffredo who shrugged.

Honore led the way down several steps to his studio, a small airless room, part of the building’s cellar, he explained. An oil lamp was the only light. An empty easel stood in the corner. Pots of linseed oil, vials of pigment, a sack of plaster and rabbit skin glue stood on a worktable next to a few worn brushes. A roll of linen and wooden stretchers were stacked in the corner. In the far corner finished canvases were strewn about, their lines and colors unappealing.

“You answered a notice in La Presse.”

He nodded.

“How do you know Elena?” Loffredo asked.

“A few years ago, we were… friends. I met her through a mutual friend, a poet, Paul Verlaine. Not here now, he’s in prison. And of course through Victorine, we both know her.”

“You were lovers?”

He shrugged. “She helps me and I help her.”

“This is your studio?” Serafina asked. “Your work?” She pointed to the paintings.

He had a prolonged coughing fit. “Last year’s work. Haven’t painted in a while. I’ve been ill.” His hands began to tremble and he hid them beneath the seat of his chair.

Loffredo rubbed his chin. She could feel the heft of his sorrow. They watched as Honore coughed again.

Serafina wished she could help him. “You need fresh air. I suggest we go to a cafe. Do you know a place close by?”

“Down the street, closer to the quay. Too expensive for me, but there’s a bistro you would like.”

They walked down the street with Honore. She watched Loffredo drinking in the fresh air. When they were seated, the painter ordered steak and pommes frites. Loffredo asked him where they could find Elena.

He didn’t answer at first, he was too busy shoveling in his food. Serafina noticed his hands were filthy. He was eating with them, not bothering with utensils, stuffing chunks of meat into his mouth. She turned away.

“She’s in Aix, close to Cezanne’s studio.” He looked at them, wary. His lips were coated with animal fat. It dribbled down his chin.

“Do you have the address?”

“I…”

“Do you have her address or not?” Serafina asked.

“I do. You must understand,” he said, interrupted by coughing, “she asked me not to tell anyone. I’m to meet her there next month, and she will have paintings for me to show to our friends.”

Slowly he brought out a piece of paper, worn in spots where it had been folded many times. He handed it to Loffredo who opened it and read. “The note is written in her hand.”

Honore’s gaze was furtive. “My reward?”

Serafina opened her reticule and drew out an envelope.

His fingers shook as he opened it and counted the bills.

After they left Honore, she and Loffredo walked along the Seine until they found a place to sit.

“Remember Les Halles?” he asked. When she nodded he said, “I saw Honore with a companion at the small bar. They were quite drunk, do you remember them?”

Serafina shook her head. “I saw only you.” She stopped then and reached up and kissed him. It was a real kiss, a kiss worthy of Paris.

“How far has Elena sunk?” He buried his head in her shoulder and wept.

There was a telegraph office in the hotel and they cabled Valois with Elena’s location in Aix and their intention to take the first train from the Gare de Lyon and confront her.

Serafina felt a sense of urgency now that she knew where Elena was. She felt sure this Honore fellow was telling the truth. He’d shown her the address written in Elena’s hand, for one thing. And yet they must hurry. Elena was like a wave on the shore-her own father had said as much. She and Loffredo quickened their pace.

Chapter 33: A Studio in Aix

They’d ridden all over Aix-en-Provence and the outskirts, too, looking for Elena. The Midi seemed more like Sicily, but there was a transparency, a clarity and a buoyancy to the light in the south of France that was mesmerizing, unlike anything she’d known in Oltramari. Serafina breathed in and touched Loffredo’s hand. Although their driver claimed to know the city, they found a newsstand and bought a plan, but neither the man nor the map were much help. Roads were a tangled web, abruptly stopping or making an about face, and street numbers were in no apparent order. On their first attempt to locate Elena, they wound up where they’d started. It took them the morning, but they persisted, and it was close to noon when they arrived at the address. When Serafina alighted from the carriage, the sun beat down and her curls stuck to her scalp as if they’d been burned into her flesh. Loffredo asked the driver to wait for them.

They rang the bell and stood by the side of the road in front of a high stone wall with a grill for a gate, the interior half hidden by a large bougainvillea which draped itself over the wall. Their shoes crunched gravel as they waited, too excited to stand still. For once, Serafina’s toes were warm. She shielded her eyes from the blinding rays of the sun. After the cool damp of Paris, she welcomed the warmth on her back, marveling at the vibrancy of the colors, golds and violets, umbers and oxides. The smell of lavender was almost overpowering. Even the shadows suggested heat and light. For a moment she thought they’d been magically transported into one of Cezanne’s paintings.

Two days ago, when they’d gotten Elena’s address, they rushed home. Serafina wrote a note for Carmela, and Rosa left orders for Gesuzza to enjoy herself. They packed small bags and caught a cab for the Gare de Lyon where Rosa bought tickets to Coudoux, wiring ahead for a carriage to Aix, one large enough to accommodate a party of six with luggage.

Serafina felt beads of water creeping into her undergarments. Her corset bit into her flesh. She wished she’d packed some lighter clothes.

Loffredo had removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. He stood unsmiling and rubbing his chin and rattling the gate. Teo rang the bell again. Rosa swayed from side to side. Only Tessa seemed excited, no doubt anticipating a tour of a real artist’s studio in the Midi. Serafina hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed.

Finally a disheveled man with a porcupine beard led them into a lush courtyard filled with flowers and ornamental trees. It fronted a small stone villa with climbing vines. To one side stood a large ochre outbuilding, presumably Elena’s studio.

They asked for the countess.

The man’s eyes moved to the right. “Not here.” He was short and squat, his collar undone, his trousers fading from black to purple, his face wary.

“She lives here?” Serafina asked.

Before he could reply, Rosa reached for his hand through the grill and shoved a wad of bills into it. “We’re from her hometown. We’ve traveled thousands of kilometers, and we’d like to say hello to her.”

The man removed his straw hat, wiped a sleeve across his forehead and mumbled something. The gate creaked open and he led them into a courtyard filled with sun and ornamental trees in great enameled pots. The caked earth hummed with creatures. Somewhere a bird sang. In the middle of the space grew a gnarled olive tree surrounded by tall grasses and large golden flowers.

They watched as the man opened the iron door of the studio, a rectangular structure, and followed him inside.

Serafina saw a ceiling of skylights in the narrow space, breathed in air filled with a mix of wet gesso, sawdust, and linseed oil. The entryway was crowded with easels and palettes, stretchers, rolls of canvas and linen, brushes standing in pots. They walked toward the front. When her eyes adjusted to the interior light, Serafina could see a figure, a woman. She stood at an easel holding a blank canvas, her back to them, an apron wrapped around her thick frame, her hair matted and cut unevenly.

“Hello, Elena,” Loffredo said.

The woman swiveled around and stood there, mute, her eyes round and unblinking. Slowly her cheeks filled with color. She pointed to Loffredo.

Serafina’s heart beat wildly and in spite of herself, she swayed as her vision swam, but Rosa held onto her arm, steadying her.

The moment stretched. The light seemed unreal, the whole scene, a fantasy. Elena lowered her arm. Her face showed nothing, no regret, no surprise, no happiness, no sorrow. She was quite mad, Serafina realized.

Tessa clapped a hand over her mouth. Serafina saw Teo staring at the Elena, watched Arcangelo who was peering up into the bright glassed ceiling, almost unaware of Elena, his face bathed in blue from the heavens. She looked to Rosa who stood serene, and to Loffredo who stood tall.

“Who told you where find me? It must have been that drunken lout. Some lover he turned out to be, I’ll kill him,” Elena snarled and turned to the servant. “And you? Why did you let them in? Get out of here, all of you-go!”

Loffredo straightened. “Your ruse is over.”

“How dare you disturb me? Can’t you see I’m working? Have you no shame?”

“How did you pull it off?” Rosa asked.

“All I want is to be left alone. Leave me. Now.”

“Sophie didn’t help you?” Rosa persisted. “And her sons? Ricci, for instance-he’s indebted to you. You’ve broken your father’s heart. He’s spent a fortune looking for you.”

Elena’s smile was crooked. “He doesn’t come himself to comfort me? How does he expect me to succeed?”

“In Paris, a woman of the streets was murdered, mistakenly identified as Elena Loffredo,” Rosa said.

Elena’s smile faded. She said nothing, continued to stare.

“Until last week, a stranger was buried in your grave,” Loffredo said.

Elena reared her head to the ceiling and bellowed.

Serafina’s heart seemed to stop. She rubbed her forehead. “The police investigate your death at a great cost. At a minimum, you owe their expenses, thousands of francs.”

Elena pointed to Serafina. “You’ve wanted my husband for yourself. Well, now you have him.” She sneered at Loffredo. “You disgust me. All of you disgust me. You won’t get away with this.”

Serafina felt empty, but she said, “With Loffredo, you’ll give your child a good home, respectability.”

“Why couldn’t you have simply gone on vacation if you wanted to paint?” Rosa asked.

Elena’s eyes were huge. “And have thousands of hungry Parisians on my doorstep wanting a week in the Midi? You know nothing of a painter’s life, how hard we must toil without interruption. We need months alone, no visitors. Now get out!”

“What perversity of spirit makes you think you’ll get away with this?” Rosa asked. “The joke has gone on too long. Give it up, Elena. Come back to Paris with us. You can cover the cost. Laugh it off as a lark. Imagine the surprise on your friends’ faces when you appear. They’ll talk of you forever. And when the sparkle of the joke has worn off and you’ve had your child, you can always come back here and paint if that’s what you want to do. You can do anything with your money. The world is yours.”

“Think of the child you carry,” Serafina said.

Elena’s lip curled. “Never. I’ll never return.” Her eyes darted back and forth. It was as if a demon controlled her mind.

They were silent.

“Sophie has claimed your insurance,” Loffredo said. “You don’t think l’Assicurazioni Generali won’t investigate? They’ll charge you with fraud. You’ll go to prison.”

Elena was silent. She put down her brush. Her hand moved to her side and dropped from view.

Arcangelo whispered in Serafina’s ear.

She narrowed her gaze and watched Elena’s side. “Take care, Loffredo,” Serafina said, loud enough for him to hear.

Loffredo took a step toward Elena. “You missed your latest appointment with Dr. Tarnier. He waits for you. He’s the best doctor there is. He will help you and the child.”

“All I want to do is paint.” Elena fumbled in her pocket.

There was no reasoning with her. It was time to leave.

“I’d love to see your paintings,” Tessa said.

Elena looked around. “Where are they, my canvases? They’re gone! Who took them?

Serafina heard a door open and felt movement behind them.

“Do not turn around. Keep talking to her. Begin to back away,” a low voice whispered in back of them.

“You were the one who killed her, weren’t you, Elena,” Serafina said.

She heard Rosa gasp, saw Elena’s smugness.

Serafina spoke again. “You stole your lover’s gun and killed the street walker. You put the chain of your reticule around her neck. You placed the smoking pistol in her hand.”

“Near enough to the truth. She was a nobody. She was sick.”

“And when I got too close to discovering your secret, you shot me. You were in your apartment the night I visited, weren’t you? The concierge said you’d just left and would return. He tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen to him. Then you had a talk with Sophie. You told her you’d changed your will. She’d inherit your fortune, all she needed to do was assist and keep her mouth shut. Just a little help, that’s all you needed. You told her what to do.”

Her laugh was like a thunder clap. “Liar, you whore, stealing my husband. I may have killed the streetwalker. I may have done. But she was a tramp. All I wanted to do was paint. I found the slut. Easy enough. Yes, it was my idea-the pistols, everything. Long after the deed was done, long after my burial, a mockery, I heard you were in town. I knew you’d come snooping sooner or later. I needed you dead. How dare you invade my apartment? Sophie knew good luck when it bit her in the face, why didn’t you? You’d have Loffredo, but now you’re going to lose him, you stupid whore. You think you have to save the world. Well this is what you get for it!”

Serafina heard footsteps approach. From the corner of her eye she saw the police moving into view, Valois’ doing. Elena didn’t seem to notice them. It was time to leave and let the officials do their work.

“Step back,” a low, steady voice said.

“Get down. Loffredo, down!” Serafina yelled.

Rosa held Tessa by the arm and led her back. She motioned to Teo and Arcangelo to follow.

Loffredo moved in front of Serafina.

Elena pointed her pistol at Loffredo, blinded by her fury. “Some husband you are! Because of you I came to Paris. You fatigue me, always did. I had one chance, one chance to paint like the others. I knew when I saw the exhibit, those glorious works changing forever the course of painting, the expression of feeling. You wouldn’t understand. I had to do something. And Gaston, such a shame, another weak excuse for a man. Yes, I stole his pistols. I killed the streetwalker, worthless creature. If you think I’m going back to Paris with you…” Elena drew her pistol, aimed it at Loffredo.

“Put down the gun,” a voice said.

“Get down!” Serafina said. “Loffredo, down!”

“If you think I’ll succumb to the wishes of my father, do what is expected…You boor. Husband? Hah! And you, you slut! I could kill you both with my bare hands. At last I’ve created the life I’ve wanted. With child, yes, yes, and with no help from you!”

Elena steadied the gun on Loffredo.

“Put down the pistol or we fire!”

The police moved forward.

Serafina watched in horror. Her fault, all her fault. She should have realized Elena was a madwoman and yet she had persisted, put them all in danger.

“Put the gun down, Elena,” Rosa called from the rear of the room.

“Yes, please show me what you paint, your brush strokes, I’d like to learn from you. I came to Paris because I love art and perhaps you can teach me,” Tessa said.

Elena paled, brushed hair from her face, her eyes distraught.

The police were in sight now, their firearms drawn.

“Let us help you, Elena,” Serafina said.

But it was useless. The more they pleaded with her, the more distraught Elena became. She was wild.

Loffredo stepped forward. “Give me the gun, Elena. It’s not good for the child you carry.”

She aimed, the gun shaking in her hands. “Don’t come near me.” Elena clenched her teeth. She was trembling, her eyes other worldly.

Suddenly Elena became aware of the police. She fired.

A blinding light. A blast. An acrid stench.

Serafina watched as Loffredo lifted in the air. Suspended for the briefest of seconds, he flew backward as if he had wings.

Serafina saw the red appear on his white shirt, a rose suddenly blooming.

She heard herself wail as she flew to him, helpless, holding him in her lap, his eyes staring, his face fixed.

One of the policemen rushed to him with strips of cloth, pressing them into the wound and holding it while the medics ran in with a gurney. Loffredo looked at her and smiled, pressed her hand and closed his eyes.

Through tears, Serafina looked up in time to see Elena stick the barrel into her mouth and fire again.

Chapter 34: Praying to the Virgin

“We came prepared,” the policeman explained. “Valois warned us of a madwoman.” He introduced himself as the friend of Valois. They’d been students together years ago in Paris. “He gave us the address and told us to take all necessary precautions, and so, you see, we did.” His men wrapped the body of Elena in a muslin sack and it was taken to the morgue in a wagon dispatched for that purpose.

Medics lifted Loffredo into an ambulance drawn by two horses.

“They’ll take him to the central hospital in Aix,” a policeman told them. “It’s an old building on the main square near the Cathedral Saint Sauveur run by an order of nuns.”

“I’d like to ride with him,” Serafina said.

He shook his head. “We’ll need statements from everyone present. A brief description of what you saw and heard, and perhaps someone give me some background on the woman.”

“You’ll send a copy of your report to Valois?” Serafina asked.

“Of course.”

When they’d each written an account of the events in Elena’s studio, they rode in the carriage, making arrangements for rooms at a hotel recommended to them by the driver, clean, pleasant, and close to the hospital.

The afternoon was hot, the air, still.

“It’s all my fault. I should have known how mad she was,” Serafina said. She rocked back and forth.

When they arrived, she vowed she would keep him alive, staying by his side without sleeping or eating, except during the cleansing of his wound.

“His chances, Doctor?” Serafina asked.

“We’ll know more after the operation,” the chief surgeon said. He was a kind man with a round face and half-moon glasses. “Pray, my dear.”

Serafina watched the procedure from the gallery, praying to the Virgin, impressed by the staff and the cleanliness and efficiency of the hospital.

After the operation, Loffredo, looking like a flattened version of himself was wheeled back into the room. Serafina followed.

The doctor paid a visit. “It entered his far right side, mercifully avoiding the major organs until it reached the stomach where we were able to extract it.”

He smiled and held the deadly thing between his thumb and forefinger. “The bullet is small, but he was standing relatively close to the shooter and the lead was propelled at a rapid velocity. It ricocheted off his ribcage, tearing through muscle and came to lodge in the wall of the stomach. The quick action of the police helped to prevent too much loss of blood, but he’s had internal bleeding.”

Serafina bit her lip. “His chances?”

The surgeon shook his head. “The next seventy-two hours are critical, but he seems in excellent health otherwise. So far, he’s been lucky. If it had entered his left side, well…”

“Oh, thank the Virgin.”

“Thank modern medical practice,” the doctor said, “and thank a poor shot. A woman shot him, I understand. Close range. Maybe she got the sides mixed up.” He smiled.

“Why isn’t he awake?”

He shrugged. “His body has had a shock. Each person reacts differently. Right now, he’s in a deep sleep. We believe he can hear. Talk to him. Sing to him. Last year we had a woman who was shot by her husband, a similar circumstance, but in reverse. The bullet lodged in her lung. It collapsed. We removed the bullet, and she was in a coma for days, but pulled through. Today the man is in prison, not for long unfortunately, but she is doing fine.” The doctor paused. “Your friend has how many years-forty?”

Serafina nodded. “More or less.”

Nuns in blue habits and starched cornettes moved soundlessly and made sure Loffredo was clean and comfortable.

“When will he wake up?” Serafina asked a tall, plump sister.

The nun shrugged. “We don’t know, my dear. Pray. I’ve seen far worse survive and walk out a few weeks later.”

Doctors came in and listened to Loffredo’s pulse. Most did not stop to talk with Serafina.

For her part, Serafina continued a long monologue. She told Loffredo how much she loved him, how she always had. She told him what the weather was like, what she saw out the window down the hall, how many beds were in the ward, how many patients with bandaged legs, whatever she could think of. She told him how sorry she was that this had happened. It was her fault, all her fault, but the care was so good here. Indeed life was so good, not at all like it was at home. In Oltramari, Serafina told him, life had become untenable. No response.

Later, she squeezed Loffredo’s hand, but felt no response.

Two days later, he hadn’t awakened.

“Keep talking to him,” the plump sister said. “The worst thing you can do is give up. Patients who wake up tell us they were soothed by the voices of their loved ones.”

Serafina sang to him, and laughed at her singing. She read to him from a book Teo lent her about Notre Dame and gargoyles and love. She squeezed his hand.

No response.

“Read the paper to him,” Rosa said. “And by the way, Carmela and Giulia are packing up our things from the hotel. We’ll take a boat from Marseille as soon as Loffredo is well enough to travel. No need to return to Paris.”

“Oh, but I want to talk with Busacca and Valois. There is much unfinished business. I think we still must talk with Gaston and Sophie’s oldest son. We need to find out more about the dead woman. And what about the stolen photos?”

“Busacca you can see at home. Valois is on his way. No doubt he’ll have all the answers.”

“Hear that, Loffredo? Valois is on his way. He must like you.”

No response.

Three nuns came in and told Serafina to take a walk down the hall while they changed and washed the patient.

Two days later, the chief surgeon paid a visit. He seemed concerned. He frightened Serafina.

“Pray, my dear.”

“I’m praying to the Virgin all the time. I haven’t prayed so much in all my life, eh, Loffredo?” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe I’ll call you Otto. You hate the name so, it might wake you up.”

No response.

Rosa bent to him. “Time to get up for school, Loffredo,” she said and squeezed his hand.

He squeezed Rosa’s hand.

The madam looked like a cat who’d landed in a bowl of liver. “There. Did you see that? He squeezed my hand. Just got to use the right words. He’s waking up.”

Serafina’s heart began to pound. She thought perhaps Rosa was imagining, so she squeezed Loffredo’s hand.

She felt no response from him and her heart sank.

Then he squeezed her hand.

Serafina laughed and cried at the same time. “Time to open your eyes.”

In a moment, his eyes blinked and he smiled at her. “Where am I?”

“In a hospital.”

“I must have slept.”

Three days later, Loffredo was walking up and down the ward, anxious to leave. He and the doctor had become friends and exchanged addresses.

“I’m impressed with French hospitals,” Loffredo told him. “We have a lot to learn from you, and I am grateful for your care. When I get back to Oltramari, I’ll talk to my surgeon friends and see if we can’t arrange an official visit.”

Serafina teared up. She missed home. She missed her family, but she was grateful indeed for the miracle of Loffredo.

A few days after Loffredo was released, Serafina’s group sat in the hotel garden enjoying the sunshine and one another when Rosa, who’d returned from shopping with Tessa, said, “We have a visitor.”

It was Valois. “I wanted to thank you in person for your work. I’ll admit there were times I doubted you, times I thought you’d overstepped your bounds, many times I didn’t agree with you, but you are a fine detective.”

“Bravo,” Loffredo said.

“You’ve forgotten something,” Rosa said. “She is maddening, truly maddening at times.”

“Elena’s body was shipped to Versailles and laid to rest after Busacca identified it,” Valois said, “And now we can close the case. You agree, of course.”

“Not so fast, I’m afraid,” Serafina said. “We have more work. I’ll write to you from home. Won’t the insurance company press charges?”

“Perhaps, but that’s separate and their concern. We’ve released the Italians who followed you.”

She nodded. “I must take care of the don in Oltramari, I’m afraid. Do you know the identity of the woman murdered in the Rue Cassette?”

He shook his head. “A streetwalker. A woman of thirty years or so. We think she was living in a poor neighborhood without husband or children. She hadn’t been seen in quite some time. What she was doing on the Rue Cassette, we don’t know.”

Serafina pursed her lips. “So, at the very least, we need to find out more about her.”

“Before Haussmann redesigned Paris, there were terrible slums, but now the displaced have to live somewhere, don’t they? And so they find little warrens in which to congregate. I’m afraid there are establishments which attract them, and Cafe Odile is one, but we haven’t found her identity as yet, and so we buried her in a common grave.”

Serafina frowned into the distance, lost in thought.

“And I have something for you from Busacca,” Valois said. “Two thick envelopes. In one, your tickets for your passage on the pack boat, Niger, leaving Saturday from Marseille for Palermo.”

“How many tickets?”

“Six. Carmela stays in Paris for the moment, but there’s one for Loffredo, your husband to be, I think?” He smiled. “At least that’s what Francoise tells me. She said to say hello and hopes we’ll meet again soon.”

Serafina looked at Loffredo. He smiled.

Valois continued. “There is a second envelope, and Busacca asks that you not read it until you’re home and surrounded by your family. But from what he tells me, I have a feeling this is not the last time we’ll be working together.”

For a while Serafina was alone with her thoughts of Don Tigro and the reckoning that awaited her in Oltramari. Despite the warmth of the Midi, she felt a chill. “Another thing I don’t yet know is who took the photographs from your desk. I’d like to see them. I wonder if I would have known from those images that the dead woman was not Elena.”

“We believe men who had access to my office and the photographer’s rooms were thieves hired by Elena.” Valois shrugged. “Beyond that-”

“So there’s another unknown,” Serafina said.

She tapped the side of her nose and winked. “Look to Elena’s nephews, Ricci or Beniamino de Masson, Sophie’s youngest and oldest. The middle son, Tessa tells me, is too busy mismanaging one of Busacca’s stores. And Ricci owed his aunt gambling debts.” Yet somehow she thought Ricci an innocent.

There was a momentary lull in the conversation until they drifted again into a discussion of Elena.

“I still think that if I hadn’t goaded her, she wouldn’t have shot you,” Serafina said to Loffredo.

“Perhaps, but she was the one who shot me, not you. I would never blame you. You needed to find out the truth.”

“And sometimes the truth is buried deep and must be pried out of us,” Rosa said.

Serafina opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it.

“Elena wasn’t always like that,” Loffredo said. “Most of us mellow with age, either because we grow wiser or we are closer to our God.”

“Or we cannot debauch the way we used to in our youth,” Rosa said.

“But Elena,” Loffredo continued, “became a caricature of herself. She became less, not more.”

“So do people change?” Serafina asked.

Valois shook his head. “Definitely not. They carry their unique stamp from birth to their grave, and cannot change.”

“Oh, but I think we do, we grow and we change,” Serafina said. “Most of us for the better, even though, perversely, we long for the past. When we mourn for others, we long for a part of us we’ll never have again.”

“There you go, talking convoluted nonsense,” Rosa said. “Perhaps it was the disease from which Elena suffered that spiraled her downward. It drives people into madness, makes them blind, you know.”

“How did you know about her disease?” Valois asked. “You couldn’t have read the autopsy.”

“It was obvious to me,” Rosa said.

Loffredo rubbed his chin. “Dr. Tarnier told me she had syphilis. It was the reason he agreed to care for her. Normally women who are with child hire midwives, but because of Elena’s complications-”

“And because she made a generous bequest to La Maternite, he took her case,” Rosa said.

Rosa continued. “Elena was a syphilitics who’d gone mad. Did she know she was going to die, I wonder?”

Serafina shook her head. “We all know we’re going to die, but somehow we fool ourselves into thinking that our death is a long way off-maybe tomorrow or next week, but certainly not today.”

Chapter 35: Wind, Light, Water

Wind, light, water and the unending sound of the sea helped to mute the shattering events of their final week in France. Serafina and Loffredo sat alone with the setting sun onboard the Niger as it plowed through the Straits of Bonifacio and into the Tyrrhenian Sea steaming toward Palermo. Rosa had taken charge, declared that Fina and Loffredo must be left alone for the voyage, a brief honeymoon after they’d said their vows before a wizened priest in Cathedral St. Sauveur.

“Time enough for thoughts of home.”

She closed her eyes and let the sun play on her face, smelled seaweed and salt and tried to erase the images that pierced her mind over and over-standing before the heavy door to Elena’s studio, Don Tigro’s man cupping his ear in Marseille, Valois stroking his lapel, Loffredo lying on Elena’s studio floor. Instead she deliberately pictured him as he walked toward her in Vefour. She looked at him, stronger each day, but in need of more rest. If she couldn’t obliterate the sight of Elena swallowing her gun, how could he? Would the memory of her treachery ricochet throughout their lives? A shaft of light shone through a hole in the clouds and the wind picked up. They were sprinkled with sea foam, like a priest shaking holy water onto them. She remembered their simple wedding-Tessa and Rosa clapping, the crackers set off by Teo and Arcangelo. Despite the doctor’s orders, they’d consummated their love again and again.

“Think I should open Busacca’s letter?”

He stroked her hand and smiled. “Wait until we’re home.”

“I wonder…” She adjusted her scarf. “Not one letter from Vicenzu or Renata. Something in the air.”

“Fish.”

“Silly.”

They were quiet.

“But if I open it now, in this peaceful setting, I’ll have two days to prepare.”

“If you want. Perhaps it would be better. We’ll feel displaced when we arrive, I think. I always do when I return. We’ll see our town and it will be… other than what we’ve always known our home to be. It’s changing for the worse, I’m afraid, Fina. Soon it won’t be a fit place to raise our children, and we’ll need to make a decision. We must start thinking of it now.”

She thought for a few minutes. “I’ve decided. I won’t open Busacca’s letter now. I’ll offer it up for the repose of the soul of

…”

“Praying for she-devils?”

“For her unborn child who never had a chance. For the unknown woman dying alone in the Rue Cassette. How many lives did Elena take?”

“Everyone she ever met.”

They were silent, watching the molten ball sink behind the coast of Sardinia. Its fire licked the mountains and made their shadows dance while Serafina talked of style and dresses, the advanced state of French detection. She sucked in her stomach. Loffredo talked of France, the cuisine, painting, the state of French medical practice, their prisons.

“I never asked. Where did they keep you?”

“Prison de Mazas, near the Gare de Lyon. Most of us were awaiting trial. But the prisoners were treated with respect, at least I was, a more advanced system than ours.”

“Of course. Oltramari’s prison is a rat hotel built during the Bourbon rule.”

Their silence comforted and stretched beyond the blackened waters. The wind grew fierce. Her feet were cold.

“Hungry?” he asked.

She smiled.

Chapter 36: Oltramari

Serafina felt the wind, a blade at her back, as she alighted from the carriage. The piazza was dustier than she remembered. She held her skirts and looked at her home, the home of her ancestors, haggard in the noonday sun. The shutters were in need of paint, the stucco fading from rose to dirty ochre, water-stained close to the ground. Missing Carmela’s touch, the gardens were choked with weeds. The heat was different from the Midi’s joyous weight. It scorched, blinded, did little to comfort. And yet it was home.

Loffredo opened the gate and walked with her on the gravel path. When he opened the front door, the stone angel smiled down at her and she heard Maria’s piano, the crashing chords of a Brahms sonata. As she listened to the music, she watched the caretaker bringing her trunk and Loffredo’s luggage up to her bedroom-their bedroom-and like that, the trip was over, the mystery solved. Almost. She decided to wait until this evening after supper to read Busacca’s letter.

The domestic rose from her chair in the kitchen to greet them. Her lips trembled. Renata had gone to La Vucciria for fish, she told Serafina, and Toto wouldn’t be home from school for another hour, but Maria was in the parlor, her usual time to practice. When is she not practicing, Serafina wondered, certainly not stopping to open her arms to her mother whom she hasn’t seen in what, over a month.

“Give Maria her mood,” Loffredo said, kissing her on his way out the door to check on his office. “She’s letting you know how she feels. There’s time enough for her to grow up, but let’s not make her do it today. She’s hard to control, but we’ll find a way,” he said.

It would be easier with the two of them. She nodded. “We teeter between indulging her moods and praising her talent, difficult waters to navigate.”

Still, Serafina felt Maria’s petulance like a slap. Come to think of it, how did Loffredo know this, he had no children. But perhaps his wisdom was why they never fought, not yet at any rate.

“And Vicenzu sorts through the rubble,” Assunta said.

A strange turn of phrase, but then the housekeeper must be more aware of Oltramari’s poverty than Serafina realized. Assunta, like all peasants, understood that the price of bread was high and therefore business was bad.

Standing in the kitchen, Serafina breathed in the fragrance of Renata’s cuisine-oregano, tomato, olive oil, the sweetness of a cooling cassata on the counter. She spied the barrel of olives sitting in the corner beneath dried garlic and parsley. How she’d missed this kitchen. She scooped up a ladle full of olives and offered some to Teo. He declined, walked toward the parlor, stopping to smooth the brochure he’d brought for Maria. She wondered where Vicenzu was. No note from Renata. But of course, they weren’t expected until tomorrow. Fair winds had driven them early to an empty homecoming.

Teo stood in the doorway of the parlor, hesitating for a moment. He breathed in and closed his eyes. Yes, he must wait until she finished the piece.

When the music stopped, he cleared his throat. “I bought this for you from the workroom of Sebastien Erard.”

Maria lifted her face. “I know all about him, the inventor of the double escapement action.”

He held it out, a pamphlet about Erard’s harps and pianos. It had photographs of some of the grand pianos in the collection at the museum with a description and the prices underneath. “One day I shall buy two or three Erard pianos for you. Would you like brown or black?”

Maria smirked. “You’re a boot boy. Where will you get the money to pay for them?”

He ran a tongue around his lips. “We saw them in the Chateau de la Muette.”

“I should have been there. Mama was wrong not to take me to Paris. It has hurt my career. I have been cursed. The wrong parent died and now I’m surrounded by those who don’t care a fig about music.”

Teo said nothing.

“But at least you thought of me.” She smiled.

Teo blushed. His forehead prickled with sweat and he rubbed his hands on his pantaloons.

“Are you going to sit or not? You’re distracting me. And I think I want two browns and one black.”

“We just got home. The ship was faster on the return trip. Only took a day and a half from Marseille. Favorable winds.” He told her that her mother married in Aix, the day before they left for Marseille.

“I heard. That count person?”

He nodded.

“He’s all right, I guess. At least he appreciates my playing. He likes Brahms.”

“The house seems empty. My baby brother’s all right?”

She shrugged. “I guess so, I never go up to the nursery. But sometimes I hear the nurse singing to him. What would you like to hear?”

Teo felt the new stubble on his upper lip. His hands trembled so he shoved them in his pocket. He hoped his voice sounded deep. “Whatever you want to play.”

“Don’t say that. Tell me the name of a piece or give me the name of a composer. Anyone will do.”

“Debussy.”

“I don’t bother with his work.”

“I’m teasing. He’s our age and attends the Paris Conservatory. He played at a party we went to. Three waltzes by Charles Marie Widor.”

She made a face. “Who?”

“The organist at St. Sulpice. And Debussy’s piano was unique. Not as good as yours, but you’d have enjoyed it, I think.”

“I knew Mama should have taken me. I would have played Brahms. They’d have been enchanted.”

“But the audience was French and Brahms is German.” He shouldn’t have said that. He looked at her in alarm.

She didn’t seem to notice. She pushed her spectacles up and tossed her curls.

He saw that Maria’s hair was a bit stringy, but he didn’t say anything. He’d never say anything that would hurt her. Ever. “That’s what I want to hear, the piece you would have played at the salon.”

The opening chords of the Brahms third piano sonata resounded. Then slowly, softly, the piano rumbled distant thunder, and Teo was home.

Serafina turned around and more of her children appeared, Renata, Vicenzu, and Toto. Hugs, kisses, laughter. In a flash, Toto went in search of Teo, something to do with knucklebones. She sniffed the air. Smoke?

Renata hugged her. “Welcome home, Mama. We didn’t think you’d be here until tomorrow,” she began. “I planned a simple meal for this evening and a feast for tomorrow.”

“No matter, let me look at you.”

“And Vicenzu.” But he hung back. “Sorry I’ve been rooting through the rubble.” He wiped his hands, shoved fists into his pocket, his face red, his fear and stiffness filling the room.

Of course. She knew what rubble smelled like, the memory hadn’t left of the fire at La Maternite. Her son smelled of smoking embers.

“What’s this I hear? Assunta told me you were ‘rooting through the rubble,’ her words. Was there a fire?”

“Carmela didn’t tell you? We wired her.” He stopped.

She shook her head and felt her heart pound. “Not a word.”

“Papa’s drugstore burned to the ground. It’s gone, destroyed.”

At first she thought she’d misheard, or perhaps they were joking. Her temples started to pound and the room seemed to shift.

“The whole-”

Vicenzu nodded. “There’s nothing left.” His face reddened.

She didn’t know what to do, what to say, but she felt Vicenzu’s terror and she hugged him. She remembered holding him after he was born and sixteen years later, after the accident that changed his life forever. He told her of the bleating horns, the shouts of fire from the men, the bells ringing in the Duomo, the mules who should have been pulling the water refusing to move. He spoke of watching the flames, the smell of the smoke that still hung in the air.

“It happened so early in the morning. The sound of the bells woke me. By the time I arrived, the store was gone. Now I have nothing to do but search for scraps of paper, something, anything to remind me of Papa. I’m glad he’s dead so he’d never have to see this.”

He began pacing while she cried for the end of Giorgio and his legacy. She raked her mind for images of Giorgio on their wedding night, their honeymoon, remembered him sitting on the chaise and reading his apothecary catalogue. In the end she felt his presence as a young man. She could almost touch him.

“When did it happen?” she asked. About a month ago, he told her. The date? April 29th, a Wednesday, and Carmela lived with the news and didn’t tell her. She was in the midst of the investigation then, she remembered. She pulled the notebook out of her pocket and searched for the date of her encounter with Don Tigro’s men. It was the day before the fire.

“And our finances? Tell me everything, Vicenzu. Don’t hide the truth.”

“We owe nothing. We have a thousand lire in the bank.”

“Cash in the house?”

“About two thousand.”

“Tell me the exact amount.”

He went to the locked box they kept under a stone near the hearth and counted, eighteen hundred and fifty. She emptied her reticule and pockets. They counted five thousand in all, not including the coins and the ten thousand lire note she hadn’t cashed. She suspected there’d be a bonus inside Busacca’s letter, the one she hadn’t opened. More than enough.

“Keep it all in the locked box,” she instructed.

“Not the bank?”

She shook her head. She asked about any large expenses still outstanding and watched him thinking, waited while he looked in the ledger. She reminded him again that she needed the truth.

“Carlo’s tuition for next semester is due in two weeks.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred fifty lire.”

“Pay it now. We’ll decide our next moves tonight. I know who burned the apothecary shop. We must leave this town. We must make a new life.”

“Leave Oltramari?” he asked.

She felt her heart sink and rise again, sticking into the side of her throat. She saw Renata standing in the kitchen wringing a towel. She asked about Carlo. Renata said he might come tomorrow, she wasn’t sure.

“Must we leave?” Renata asked. She wrung her apron.

“I saw in Paris what we’d become in Oltramari. We must wire Carlo. Do that too, would you, Vicenzu?”

“Or I can take the train to-”

She looked at her watch. “We’ll decide later if there’s time, but we need you here tonight.”

“What should I say in the telegram?”

“Come home at once.”

“Where’s Carmela?” Renata asked, a hand on her forehead.

“She didn’t tell you?”

While she told them about Carmela’s job in Paris, Renata busied herself in the kitchen. Dishes and cups, pots and silverware trembled in her daughter’s hands. Vicenzu paced. Maria’s piano played that awful Brahms, but at least the youngest were in the other room or upstairs. Serafina hugged Renata, popped more olives into her mouth. There was purpose in her step.

Serafina looked at Assunta. She was sitting in her corner in the kitchen, one hand covering her eyes, the other holding a rosary.

“I want you to do some research,” she said to Vicenzu, as she stroked her daughter’s back.

Vicenzu smiled.

“Tomorrow I want you to go to the office of Messageries Maritimes in Palermo. We’ll need… she tried to count in her head, but couldn’t, brought out her notebook and sat, pushing back the curls that had fallen into her face. “Let’s see,” she mumbled and began to scribble. “Tell them we’ll need accommodation for a party of at least seventeen from Palermo to Paris, six or seven staterooms.”

“Paris?” Renata asked. Her eyes were wide. She carried an empty plate to the table, carried it back.

“Do the same at the other shipping lines but give them different destinations-Sao Palo and New York. Tell them we leave as soon as possible, but don’t buy anything yet. I just want an approximate cost. And not in steerage. I want first class accommodations. Hard enough leaving.

“Assunta, I want to talk with you in private.”

In the parlor she told the domestic they were leaving, she didn’t know where yet.

“The land is bad,” Assunta said.

“Yes, and we must leave. I pray you’ll come with us, but it’s your decision.”

“Where are we going?”

“A better city, but I don’t know where yet. Think, and tell me tonight, but tell no one else, not the caretaker, not your friends, not anyone else except perhaps Gesuzza.”

“Does she go with Rosa?”

“I don’t know yet. And now I have to leave.”

Rosa had heard about the fire. “Let’s go back to Paris,” she said. “Perfect for Tessa. It doesn’t have to be forever. The caretakers and guards can watch the houses.”

“Besides Tessa, who else?”

“Formusa and Gesuzza. I must have them both.”

“I asked Assunta. We’ll meet tonight after supper.”

Is leaving really leaving if it’s not forever? If I bring all that I love? Would I go without Rosa, without my children?

Serafina opened Loffredo’s door. The waiting room was crowded-women with pale faces, men with bandaged limbs or swollen ankles, an old soldier with a growth on his face. She sat. He wasn’t back fifteen minutes and already had patients. Would he want to leave his practice? Of course not, but would he?

Loffredo was about to call the next in line when he saw her. He waved her inside. “My wife,” he said, shrugging to the room. “You know how it is.” He smiled.

“The drugstore burned to the ground. Carmela knew and didn’t tell me.”

“We must leave,” he said.

She nodded, staunching her tears with a linen. No time to cry. “I’ve told Rosa. She’s coming for supper tonight. But first I need to find out who’s behind this.”

“How could you not know? He calls himself your brother.”

Serafina had to sit. “He told you that?”

He nodded.

“You knew all this time?”

He held up his palms.

“And you never said.”

“Why would I? I’m not sure I believe him, but what difference does it make?” He scratched his chin, peering at her. “Although I have to admit, there’s a physical resemblance.” He touched her curls and smiled. “Told me you share the same mother.”

She shivered. “Why?”

“Who knows?” Loffredo shrugged. “He’s cunning, you must admit. I think he’s trying to spoil your happiness. What we did to his men in Paris, he won’t let go of that.”

“He’ll crush us if we have to keep paying protection. When did he tell you about my mother?”

“A few years ago. I remember it was in the spring. He was standing in front of the music store. I was passing and he stopped me. Weird sort of thug, he was listening to the Brahms coming from Lorenzo’s shop. He mentioned Maria’s name, said it was her piano. He said she was his niece. Brahms is an odd thing for a thug to like. You’re pale.”

Delivered in a deathbed coup, Maddalena told her tale to Serafina, a story about bearing a son out of wedlock. Don Tigro had ginger curls like hers, gestures and a saunter like her mother’s. You’ve given me a burden, Mama. But after all, the woman was delirious when she told the tale, perhaps a chimera. Poor Mama, she must have been so lonely. No one else knew except Don Tigro, and come to find out, Loffredo. Could the don have told others? Her children must never learn of it. A real burden, Mama.

She had to calm herself.

“Fina!” He held her and she wanted him right then and there so she kissed him hard.

“We can’t, you have patients.”

Seven minutes later she left Loffredo’s office, blowing him a kiss and re-pinning her hair.

But he caught her before she opened the door, kissed the shoulder where she’d been shot.

“Have you read Busacca’s letter?”

She shook her head. “We’ll talk after supper. All of us.”

“Perhaps Paris?” he asked.

She had to think. So she hurried to the public gardens, the gardens that used to be lush, a place where birds gathered. Today a few flowers wilted in the dusty light and no birds sang. She sat on the same stone bench where she and Giorgio had courted. One night they faced Betta and Tigro, the four of them talking as two young couples will do on the edge of new life, Betta’s stomach distended with twins. Now that world with Giorgio was gone.

She steeled herself and walked around to the other side of the piazza and sat, staring at the burnt wood and ashes, the remnants of Giorgio’s apothecary shop. She choked, glad she hadn’t seen the flames and felt tears crowding her eyes, a throbbing in her head. Remembering Giorgio in his white shirt and black vest as he stood in back of the counter-his counter, his father’s, their store for generations-she smiled. He was young then, young and certain, eating his morning snack, honey dripping from the corner of his mouth. She pictured him pouring the wine while they were gathered around the table, his laughter tumbling over them, the children grabbing, the house rich with the smell of roasted pork. They were prosperous then. She longed for five more minutes of that time. But that could never be: Oltramari had changed, and she’d been holding onto the dream for too long.

She dried her eyes and drove a fist into her thigh, thinking, he’ll pay, one day he’ll pay. In her mind she slammed a splintered board into the side of his head, crushing it, just as the Virgin had done to the snake. Devil, he’s a devil. She imagined one side of Don Tigro’s head missing, like the woman Elena had killed in the Rue Cassette. She squirmed. No, she wouldn’t sink to that level. But she owed him a visit or her anger would corrode.

When she arrived, two men lounged outside his baglio on the outskirts of Oltramari squinting into mid-afternoon light, sweat on their faces, the air around them sour. She asked to see Don Tigro.

“Not here,” one said, rolling the straw to the other side of his mouth. He adjusted himself while he stared at her. A tough, he wore cheap suits and cardboard shoes.

Serafina’s eyes fell to the bulge underneath his vest, a gun.

“Tell him it’s Serafina.”

Inside his office, Tigro told her to sit. She declined.

“Where’s the money you owe me?” he asked, his teeth gleaming, his body unmoving.

She stood there, calm. She said nothing.

He wore a Savile Row suit, a diamond stud in his cravat. “I gave you protection while you were on your little outing-”

“I never asked for it.”

“Too late, I provided it.”

“I owe you nothing. And if I see your men stalking me again, I’ll knock their heads together like melons.” She stood before his desk looking down at him and poking her finger into the yellow space between them while he looked up, amused.

“Get this straight,” she said, her voice low. “You owe me for the fire you started. Your flames destroyed our apothecary shop, over two centuries turned to ash in a few hours while the police looked on and did nothing because you paid them off. And you call that protection.” She took a breath. “If I ever catch you or your men following me again, I swear I’ll pluck out your eyes, one at a time. You’ll cry for the mother you think we share.”

He smiled. “Your tongue will be the death of you one day. My spies tell me you’re leaving. Don’t worry. For now, consider it a loan. But you’ll pay up. The new world beckons us both, and I’ll see you there.”

She spun on her heels and strode out, blood pounding in her ears, her corset moist from sweat, her head held high. She felt her curls tear at her scalp. She had no doubt that Don Tigro was laughing at her, but the burden of her wrath was lightened.

Her stomach began to growl and she realized she hadn’t eaten since their arrival, except for the olives. But before the family gathered for supper, she must read Busacca’s letter. She climbed to her mother’s room on the third floor and sat in the overstuffed chair gazing at her mother’s bed.

In the envelope was another banknote, this one for twenty thousand lire, a gift to show his gratitude for a difficult job, Busacca said in the accompanying letter. Carmela had told him about the fire in the apothecary shop. Enclosed were twenty one-way tickets to Paris for Saturday.

I need your family in Paris for Carmela’s happiness as well as for my business. She tells me your son is an accountant. Remember, Paris doesn’t have to be forever. During your stay, please use Elena’s apartment. Should you decide to make your residence permanent, we will negotiate a good price for the building.

Serafina wiped her forehead with a sleeve. She thought of most of Oltramari families forced to leave their homes forever. They’d endure steerage for ten days, their bellies full of dreams and little else. When they arrived in a strange land, they’d live in airless rooms where illness thrived. They’d work sixteen hours a day for low wages. Who waited for them on the pier to fleece them? Don Tigro and his ilk. Without this commission, that’s what Serafina and her family would have faced. But for Busacca, they would have lost everything. Now their funds were fat, their passage assured, and a luxurious apartment waited for them in Paris. Not only that, she’d married the man she loved, Loffredo, who’d beaten the odds and survived a serious wound. She wondered when her luck would evaporate.

Chapter 37: Pasta con le Sarde

“We can’t afford first class,” Vicenzu said.

“I knew you’d say that. Pack your abacus, we’re going to Paris Saturday.” She held up the envelope with the tickets and cheque.

Just then Tessa and Rosa arrived and she told them about Busacca’s tickets.

“Help your sister with the supper,” Serafina said to Maria.

“But what if the stove burns my fingers? I’m a prodigy.”

Loffredo laughed. After they were seated, he poured the wine.

Maria sat as far away as she could from the kitchen and Serafina, her arms crossed, her face pinched.

They sat around the table not saying much, Serafina wondering what was keeping Carlo. She twisted the thick noodles and sauce onto her fork, savored the delicious flavors of Renata’s pasta con le sarde. “Nothing like real food.”

“It’s a small supper,” Renata blushed.

“How long will we be in Paris?” Teo wanted to know and looked at Maria.

Serafina shrugged. “Not forever. The caretakers and Rosa’s guards will manage the property.”

Maria said they absolutely must take her piano.

Serafina shook her head. “There’s a grand piano where we’re going and if it pleases you, we’ll bring it home with us.” A stupid remark, she knew. Part of her had already left, she realized, and anyway, where was home? They talked of returning, but she doubted it.

Rosa was unusually quiet. Other than wondering what they were having for dessert, she spoke little.

Tessa stared at Teo.

“I must have the piano in my room, and we must see to my lessons as soon as we arrive. Wait until my friends hear.” She scowled at Teo.

Loffredo’s brows arched. “Not lessons. We must find you a teacher who will prepare you for admission to the Paris Conservatory.”

Maria raised her shoulders. “Will the boat have a piano I can use for practice?”

Loffredo laughed and poured more wine.

“And once more, we don’t tell anyone where we’re going,” Serafina said.

“Why?” Toto asked.

“It’s our business, that’s why. The more we talk, the more gossip we invite.”

“What about school?” he asked.

“How many more days do you have?”

He counted them on his fingers. “Three. Until Tuesday.”

“So you’ll miss a few days. I’ll write a note to your teachers. I’ll think of what to say.”

The door opened and banged shut. Footsteps stumbled in the hall.

Loffredo got up to see who it was, and Carlo swaggered in. Serafina hugged him.

He nodded to everyone, shook hands with Loffredo.

“No dinner. Eaten. Sweet marsala would be nice.”

She watched him bluster, her oldest son, Carmela’s twin. Perhaps her daughter had been right: she had spoiled him. He’d been with friends and smelled of wine and tobacco. He straddled a chair, resting his arm on the back and tilting it toward the table. Blowing a thin line of smoke, he announced he wasn’t going to wherever it was they’d decided to go. A lock of hair fell on his forehead as he dipped the end of his cigar in the brandy. He wanted to finish his schooling in Palermo, and besides, he knew how to handle the don even if some people didn’t. He narrowed his gaze at Serafina.

She waved away his smoke. “And how should a mafia capo be handled?” She felt her cheeks burn.

His speech was labored. “Nothing I can teach you at this point. Why is it that you’ve got to beat Don Tigro, just like you had to beat Colonna and every other man who got in your way? Papa, too if you want to know the truth. Died too young having to deal with you, but you’ve replaced him, I see. As far as the don goes, why don’t you capitulate? Everyone else has.” He dropped an ash into his untouched plate of pasta.

Serafina felt her blood coming to the boil.

“Enable him, you mean. Is that what you’ve done, Carlo?” Loffredo asked.

Serafina wanted to slap her son; she wanted to hug him. Instead she got up and removed his plate and grabbed the glass of marsala from his hand. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

No one spoke for a moment. Rosa smiled at Loffredo.

Loffredo asked about Carlo’s studies.

“What about them?” Carlo asked.

Loffredo said nothing.

Carlo shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

There was a silence.

“Where’s Carmela, sleeping with a Frenchman?”

Serafina took Loffredo’s hand. A bolt of fire seared her head. “Best not to goad him when he’s like this. Probably the pressure of finals,” she said under her breath. She told him about Carmela’s work with Busacca.

Carlo said nothing. He went around the table and shook hands with Teo and Arcangelo, kissed Renata, Maria, and Tessa.

Halfway down the hall, he turned to them. “Prophet’s not welcome in his own land.” He blew a blurred kiss to Serafina and left.

For her part, Serafina pretended Carlo hadn’t happened. “Well, that’s that. Vicenzu, you and Teo fetch the trunks and luggage from the cellar.”

Renata brought out a cassata she’d made that afternoon, apologizing that it wasn’t what they were used to in Paris.

“Nonsense. Paris won’t be the same five minutes after you’ve arrived,” Rosa said. She and Tessa helped with the caffe and told Renata about Les Halles and how she’d love it.

Renata listened but she wasn’t smiling.

Of all the reactions, Toto’s was the one that puzzled Serafina the most. Carlo, of course mystified her, but he was just being Carlo. But Toto wasn’t saying much. She thought he’d be full of questions. But he kept asking Teo when he’d be finished with dinner because he wanted to play knucklebones.

After dessert, Serafina said they’d each be responsible for packing.

A groan from Maria.

Renata bit her lip. “I’ve invited Badali for supper tomorrow.” She put a hand to her chest.

Her daughter’s words at times were barely audible. Serafina had to think for a moment. Oh, yes. “Badali, of course. But you must.” She leaned to Loffredo. “You remember the friend of Renata, don’t you — a carabiniere?”

He looked puzzled.

“You’ll recognize him, I’m sure you will. You see him all the time in the piazza. The captain. Too bad we can’t pack him up and take him with us.”

Renata looked at her plate. Her hand trembled. Like a flower, this daughter. Each of her children was so different. She wished she could add Renata and Carmela together and divide by two. Instead she walked over and kissed Renata’s head.

“After the fire,” Renata blurted. It was the first mention of it and Vicenzu seemed to hunch into himself as if he was the one responsible, but he didn’t say anything and Renata continued. “After the fire, I knew something dire would happen.”

“Since when is going to Paris ‘dire’?” Rosa asked. “The center of cuisine.” She told Serafina that Gesuzza was going with them, and of course Arcangelo, but not Formusa. “Formusa’s wants to spend the rest of her days sitting in the sun. I told her to tell me where she wants to live and I’ll arrange it.” She shook her head. “How I’ll miss her kitchen. And Assunta?”

“Going,” Serafina said.

“No reason why we can’t travel back and forth, especially for Christmas and Easter,” Rosa said, looking at Renata who was folding and unfolding her linen.

“Of course not, only six months away,” Serafina forced herself to say. Her toes were cold.

Late that night after the lovemaking, she asked Loffredo what he’d do with his villa.

He shrugged. “The caretaker will watch it. We’ll keep it for vacations. Don’t forget, it’s got hot water in the upstairs bath and after six months of living in Elena’s apartment, you’ll be used to having it.”

“I miss it already.” She paused. “Elena’s apartment? You mean our apartment.”

“We’ll be back. We’re not going forever, but we can’t make a living in Oltramari ever again. The don’s oppression is too great. He’ll sap every ounce of strength and suck all monies from you,” he said. “And there are more just like him. They’re like weeds taking over the garden.”

“So you don’t think Carlo is right?”

“I think Carlo drinks too much, keeps company with the wrong crowd, and somehow we need to get him back on the right path. At least we must try,” he said. “I don’t know how yet.”

“He’ll be around tomorrow apologizing, you’ll see,” Serafina said. “My toes.”

“Again? Yes, they’re frozen. You’re worried about your children, that’s why.” He rubbed her feet.

She wondered how to bring up the subject of money. They hadn’t spoken of it. She wanted to assure him they’d have enough, at least for the near term. “Are you… don’t you worry about… I know, right now we’re all right, but I have no idea what our expenses will be like in Paris.”

“We’ll never want, Fina. You wouldn’t have to work unless of course something happens to the Swiss banks. For over twenty years I’ve barely touched the allowance from Elena, and I’ve invested it well, with help of course from a trusted advisor. Perhaps after we’re settled and Carlo comes around, he and I will go into practice together. I need to talk to him. I got the sense that…”

She relaxed. “He’s like that,” Serafina said. “Seems uninterested in his profession, and yet he maintains good grades. And he cares, he really does. You told me his professor, what was his name?”

“Libertate, but that was a few years ago-when you were working on Rosa’s case, remember? He helped me with the autopsy.”

They were silent for a time.

“But since then he’s changed. Does he have a large allowance?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. Vicenzu handles the finances. I’ve never asked. But knowing Vicenzu…” She rolled her eyes. “Vicenzu doesn’t draw a fire unless it’s winter. Says we can’t waste the logs.”

“The frock coat Carlo wore tonight looked expensive and new,” Loffredo said. “And he was smoking a Cuban cigar.”

“Only the best for Carlo,” she said and yawned. “Two prima donnas in the family.”

He smiled. “Worries for another day.”

Serafina rose and went to the window. After opening the shutters, she breathed in, trying not to think of Carlo or Maria or leaving. In the east she saw a thin line of light edging the mountain tops. Her eyes swept over the front garden to their chestnut tree planted hundreds of years ago, past the tops of buildings surrounding Oltramari’s harbor, and gazed out to a calm sea. Mist crept in, blanketing the horizon. She’d leave her home, but not forever. They’d be back.

“There’s a ship far out, you can barely see it. The fog almost swallows it. I wonder if it’s the one we take Saturday.”

No answer. He’d fallen asleep.

Chapter 38: Mal de Mer

The sea was placid, the night sky beautiful, the boat not too full and they dined with the captain. She and Loffredo spent their days on deck, sleeping or talking with the other passengers. The closer they got to Paris, however, the more she thought about Elena and the loose ends of the case.

Serafina’s French improved, but the Parisians still regarded her with a tight smile. They met a widow and her dog who lived in their arrondissement and now that they could smile at someone whom they might pass on the sidewalk, they thought of themselves as practically natives.

They walked around the deck or asked Teo what mountains they were looking at. Where he’d found the information, she didn’t know, probably somewhere on Giorgio’s shelves, but he held a map showing latitude, longitude, currents, depths of the sea. “We’re in the deepest part of the Tyrrhenian Sea,” he announced on the first afternoon of their voyage, “almost 3800 meters deep.” His words attracted other passengers who thought he was the ship’s guide. Maria looked at Teo as though he belonged in a cage. And yet Serafina felt her daughter drawn to him.

Serafina kissed Loffredo on the arm. “I’m watching my family through your eyes and seeing them for the first time.”

“Perhaps we should tell them the story of Elena at dinner tonight.”

“I’ve got a better idea. After we arrive, we’ll invite Busacca and have him tell the story of his daughter. A lesson for them, I should think.”

It was Renata’s first trip by sea and she spent most of the time in her state room, ill.

“Another night and we’ll be in Marseille. You’ll like the cuisine, I think. Distinctive.”

“If I never eat again, I’ll be happy,” Renata said.

“There’s a big kitchen in our apartment in Paris, most of the appliances seldom used. You’ll like it, my sweet.”

She smiled, pale. “I think I’d like to learn French cuisine.”

“And you’ll make it your own, Sicilian French, how daring. We’ll hire a chef for you and you can teach him pastry and he’ll teach you whatever it is you want to know and show you Les Halles. You’ll spend hours there. Sauces, the French cover everything with a sauce. I want to invite Levi Busacca to dinner, introduce him to Vicenzu and entertain him with your cuisine, my love. Don’t worry. This voyage will be over soon and with it your mal de mer.”

They were silent for a time until Serafina changed the subject. “What did you think of Carlo? His drinking disturbs me.”

“I saw him once when I took the train back from La Vucciria,” Renata said, in between bathroom bouts. “He didn’t see me but he was with two of his friends.”

“Women?”

She shook her head. “I know I’ve seen them before. I don’t like them. One has slicked black hair, the other has hair like you and Carmela. They’re brothers.”

Serafina’s heart dropped. “Are you certain?”

Renata nodded and was silent for a moment, fingering the chain of her reticule. “I miss Badali.”

“Did you give him our address in Paris?”

“Of course.” She knotted her fingers and twisted.

“We’ll be back soon. Who knows, your aristocratic clients in Bagheria will clamor for your pastry and you’ll need to make a special trip home this summer.” She hadn’t thought enough of her daughter’s feelings. She was too concerned for herself and for leaving without the don’s noticing. Would Rosa’s guards be adequate to watch over their home while they were away?

On the deck their last day, they huddled together enjoying the sun and salt air. Teo sat near Maria, who hitched herself as far away from him as she could and still remain next to him. She buried her face in the score she carried at all times, running a finger below the notes and humming, from time to time turning her face toward him but only by a fraction.

“Studying?” he asked.

“Scarlatti.”

“How’s your French repertoire?”

She shrugged.

“Because you know about the Paris Conservatory, of course, and you have a chance for admission, but I think you’d have a better one if you learned some pieces by Saint-Saens or Franck.”

“He’s Belgian.”

“But he teaches at the Conservatory. And you’ll have to learn French.”

She looked at him and narrowed her eyes, but she was listening. “Music is the universal language.”

“Do we have to stay in Paris?” Maria asked. “Yes,” Loffredo said.

“My career may take a dive.”

That night Maria woke up screaming. She knocked on Serafina’s door.

Serafina held her daughter. “Tell me the dream, my sweet.”

Maria shook her head. “Too horrible.” She held her up hands, examining them.

Serafina rocked Maria until her tears died.

“I should have stayed in Palermo with Aunt Giuseppina.”

Chapter 39: Le Livre de Patisserie

The afternoon of their arrival Serafina was haunted by what seemed a rash decision to leave home. She longed for Oltramari and its dusty streets. But even before she’d unpacked and sorted out the bedrooms, Carmela and Giulia paid a visit, laughing, bringing food and wine and speaking a guttural form of French. Serafina brightened. Most of her family was together again.

In a week they were settled. They’d applied to the Minister of Justice, Keeper of the Seal, for complete domicile and naturalization. It would take three years. Loffredo and Serafina announced their intention to marry properly in the civil courts according to French law, and Serafina’s yearning for Oltramari was swallowed up by the excitement of Paris in full bloom.

Teo, Tessa and Arcangelo bought maps for the newcomers and showed them everything they knew of the city. They were out most days, returning for supper, tired and happy, adapting quickly as children do, and beginning to pick up the language. Even Maria forgot about her piano. In six months they’d be shouting to one another in French.

At first the bedrooms were a bit of a squeeze, but they’d have to make do with them. They found three small chambers on one side of the conservatory, perfect for the nurse and toddlers. The rest of the rooms were on the first floor, two in the east wing and two in the west. For now Teo, Arcangelo, and Toto would have to share a room.

They had an easy time of moving, Loffredo assured her. At the table one evening, he passed around an article in Le Figaro about the squalid conditions immigrants faced in New York. They stared at the photographs of the newly arrived, crowding into Castle Garden, of families huddled together in one room, immigrants relegated to the poor neighborhoods of lower Manhattan. “But we’ve landed in Paris like a cat in a bowl of liver.”

The space eased considerably soon after Rosa became friends with the concierge. More than friends, Loffredo thought.

“She’s part snake charmer,” Serafina told him.

When an apartment opened on the first floor, Rosa was the first to learn of it and snapped it up. There was a studio for Tessa, she told Serafina, and best of all, they had exclusive use of the garden. “Tessa can paint en pleine air. Now I must find a cook.” And Francoise introduced her to a second cousin who had a friend who had a sister who knew a cook who was looking for work. Her references were strong and Rosa hired her for a week with the possibility of full-time employment. After two dinners, Rosa was delighted and the woman was hired.

Renata, it appeared, tucked Badali into a far corner of her mind when she saw the kitchen. Larger than Serafina remembered, it containing every utensil, every size of pot and pan and platter a cook would want. Still, there was something not quite right with Renata, Loffredo felt.

“I know,” Serafina said. “She’s like that. If I could take her pain away, I would.”

Loffredo went to Librairie Hachette on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and bought Renata a copy of Le Livre de Patisserie by Jules Gouffe.

“But it’s in French.”

“ Certainement,” an unfamiliar voice said.

Serafina looked up at the figure in black bombazine. “You must be the tutor.”

“The femme savante, Madame.”

Rosa bustled in. “We found her talking to the concierge,” she explained, “and I brought her up here. She’ll teach us everything we need to know, I expect.”

The tall woman introduced herself. Busacca had arranged it, she said, “For six months or as you wish, Madame.” There was a stiffness about her that reminded Serafina of a French housekeeper she’d met a few years ago when she and Rosa worked a case in Bagheria.

Chapter 40: Hiding from the Truth

Serafina sat in a far corner of the ladies’ parlor and her mind drifted again to the case. Loffredo’s injury meant they’d departed before she’d finished tying up loose ends, and there were two areas of the investigation that bothered her-Elena’s admission that she’d killed the woman in the Rue Cassette and the unrecovered photos taken at the scene of the crime.

A few things disturbed her about Elena’s confession. First, she wondered how and when Elena stole Gaston’s pistols-how and when she learned to shoot, albeit not very well; how she would have known of their existence; and how close was she standing to the woman when she shot her? Elena was short and the victim seemed, even in death, to be much taller. Reading the autopsy and talking to the inspector, she hoped, would help.

She stared at the wall and decided she must talk with Valois about her concerns as soon as possible, so she hired a cab and paid a visit to his office. He wasn’t in at the moment but was expected “later.” The receptionist apologized, but she couldn’t be more precise, so Serafina left her card saying she’d return. She told the driver to take her to Busacca’s store on the Rue du Mont-Parnasse where she asked to speak with Ricci de Masson.

The smiling redhead came out to greet her. A gracious host, Ricci bowed. “I remember you. You’re from Oltramari.”

“I came here to see the photos.”

Judging from his reaction, she’d caught him off guard. She could see him weighing how to reply. She liked this man with his freckles and unruly hair, a boy, really, his emotions transparent.

“Carmela likes the innovation of your displays, you know.” She glanced around at all the hats, some antique, others military. Looked like they’d seen battle, some of them. There was a sense of humor about the store and she had no doubt where it originated.

“I know.” He grinned. “She just left. Too bad you weren’t here earlier.”

“But I’ve come to see you.”

“Here’s her latest design.” He showed her a velvet pillbox that sat on the counter, its feathers tall and silky and shiny in the late morning sun, but she wasn’t tempted to linger.

“The photos, please? I suppose the police questioned you about them.”

He smiled. “In police custody.”

“I don’t believe you.” She smiled and crossed her arms.

He shut his eyes and wagged his head, his lips making a moue.

He reminded her of Carlo when he still had his charm, and her stomach lurched.

Ricci sighed, said she’d won, and asked her to follow him to the back room. She took a seat in front of his desk, watched as he walked to the other side of the room, opened a drawer, and retrieved a packet bound in felt.

After he untied the string, he lifted the contents and the cloth fell away, revealing a series of prints and plates. He pushed them across the desk so they faced her, and she picked up a photograph, squinting at it before holding it closer to the light. She winced and tried to catch her breath.

The first was a frontal view of a woman’s face distorted, recently robbed of life, the skin and muscle blown away from the woman’s left side so that the some of the skull was exposed. Could she have misconstrued it as a likeness of Elena’s face? Never. She leafed through the others, each filled with horror, each one of the same woman, definitely not Elena. Beneath them were the plates.

“The police haven’t been here?”

He shook his head. “As far as I know, they questioned my mother, but on another matter.”

“And?”

He lifted his hands and smiled.

“Have you been to Longchamp?”

He shook his head.

“You offered to show me around, remember?”

“I thought you meant recently.”

“Elena paid your debts?”

He nodded.

“You’re lying.” Despite his charm, he was difficult. He looked at her, all innocent, revealing nothing, hiding everything. Maddening.

While she reached into her reticule, she watched him tip his kippah forward and scratch the back of his head.

“Do those things itch?”

He laughed. “Sometimes. This is a difficult situation for me.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you. I like Carmela, but I have a duty to protect my own.”

“You have a duty to the truth, just like I do.”

“But why pursue it? Elena’s dead. Our relative, at times fun, at times a horror, a blight upon the family name. But now she is no more. She’s buried.”

“In Oltramari, this might be true. But this is Paris.”

“We hide from the truth, too.”

Serafina got up to leave. As she opened the door, she heard the brass bell, but told herself she’d been too hasty and walked unannounced into the back.

“One more question,” she said and brought out the wad of papers that Rosa found in Elena’s apartment. She spread them out so they were facing him, each one a statement of debt owed to Elena.

“Do you recognize these?”

He smiled at her but didn’t look at the papers. “Not mine.”

“Then whose are they?”

He didn’t answer.

“So do you deny signing these?”

He nodded.

“Whoever signed them must be a close relative. Not your mother, she wouldn’t… she works hard and doesn’t have time for Longchamp. Then whose? You know but you’re not telling me.”

He tipped his kippah and scratched his head.

She rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. “Who took the photographs, one of your brothers?”

“I didn’t take the photographs.”

She stopped and thought.

“Who photographed the woman?”

He didn’t reply.

“You have a brother.”

“Two. I have two. One you won’t find. The other one manages the store on Rue de Verneuil, or did the last time I talked to him.”

“May I see your signature?”

He reached in the drawer and pulled out paper and ink and signed his name. Nothing like the signature on the IOUs.

“May I keep it?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

“Why won’t I find Beniamino?”

“He disappears.”

“How long ago did you see him?”

“Some weeks ago, but my mother sent him a note last week. She wanted to speak with him. He hasn’t replied, and we’re not sure where he is.”

“If he signed this paper, would it look more like the signature on the IOUs?”

Ricci smiled at Serafina, but made no reply.

She admired him. “Some day I’ll take you up on your offer to show me Longchamp.”

“You’ll love it.”

Chapter 41: Valois and Serafina

Valois rose when she entered, kissed her on both cheeks. It was a warm, genuine expression of friendship.

“As soon as we’re settled, we’ll ask you for a dinner,” she said. “We’re staying in the Busacca apartment on Place de Passy. You know it well.”

“New carpet, I hope.”

They laughed.

When they were through catching up, she told him that she’d been to visit Ricci. “I saw the photographs and the plates. I would have known the woman was not Elena.”

Poor Valois. He tried to hide his surprise. He buttoned and unbuttoned his frock coat. “Ricci seemed cooperative, but only to a point. Perhaps we didn’t ask the right questions.”

“I’m sure you did, but he had a cagey way of answering, and since I’ve got secrets of my own, I understood him and called his bluff. Don’t forget, we’re both Sicilians.”

“Where are the photographs?”

She told him and after he’d made a note, she summarized her meeting with Sophie’s youngest son.

“Have you spoken with your photographer, the one who took the photos?”

Valois shrugged. “He quit last month.”

“There’s the connection-the photographer. He must have been well paid by one of the de Masson’s, and I have a feeling it was Sophie’s oldest son.”

She produced the IOUs and showed him the difference between the forgeries and Ricci’s signature. “When is Ricci not Ricci?” she said, half to herself. She paused to let him examine the documents. “Will Sophie be tried?”

He shrugged. “A matter for the insurance lawyers. If Elena were alive, they’d prosecute-fraud, pure and simple. But since she’s dead, I don’t know. I heard Busacca’s lawyer is working with the insurance company, an Italian company based in Trieste. He wants to protect his sister.”

“He wants to protect the name of Busacca, you mean.”

“So you might want to ask him,” Valois said. “More to the point is the question of whether or not Sophie would collect. I’d have to read the terms of the policy-payout might be nullified since Elena’s death was self-inflicted.”

She looked at her watch, realized she was taking more time that she thought she’d need, and apologized.

“Not at all, I’m always glad to see you, and when we’re through discussing your concerns, I have another case I think you may be interested in, also involving a forgery and the death of a pregnant woman brutally savaged. We’re strapped for men these days. Now that peace has arrived, crime rises again.”

Serafina told him about the fire destroying their means of livelihood, an apothecary shop that had been in Giorgio’s family for centuries, no doubt in retaliation for what she’d done to Don Tigro’s men. She told him about her confrontation with the local mafia capo, his demand for a percentage of her pay and her refusal to give it. “So we are here to stay, at least for a while. We thought of America, but I’m more familiar with Paris. We’re comfortable here, it brightens our spirits, and we have ties now to Busacca-our oldest daughter works for him.”

“Greater protection for you here, especially from thugs like the mafia. You’d have them on your back the minute you arrived in New York. The Italian immigrant community is brutalized by them. Become French citizens, my advice. I’ll put in a word and so will the prefect, I know. He’s been impressed with our handling of the Elena Loffredo case.”

She felt the tears spring up and bit her lip. She wouldn’t cry in front of the inspector. “That means more than I can say, but we’ve just arrived and I still feel the ties to my country. It’s so difficult to give up my home. Best now not to think too much of leaving, but to concentrate on solving crimes. Your streets are so clean, it’s hard to imagine crime has increased. How can it be worse now than during Commune?”

“Of course not. Peace is much better. But theft, rape, murder, they’re all on the rise.”

“Here’s my real reason for disturbing you.”

Valois shrugged and his smile was lopsided.

She told him of her concerns involving Elena’s confession. “I don’t see how she could have killed the woman on the Rue Cassette, and to tell you the truth, I almost goaded her into confession.”

“That’s so terrible? It was a proper confession. My men heard it. Everyone who witnessed it did, according to their statements.”

“Bad because I hadn’t thought it through. I hadn’t read the autopsy, studied its details, the entry wound, the angle that the bullet must have traveled, the height of the shooter and victim. Elena was a terrible shot you know, lucky for Loffredo.”

“And for you.”

She nodded. “With a short barrel, she’d have to have been very close to the woman to hit her target. And the angle was wrong. I’m not an expert, not by any means, but the coroner told me they found the bullet in the victim’s mouth. Could Elena have shot her, given her height? But it wasn’t until coming back here that I thought hard about it. I don’t think she shot the woman.”

He sighed, walked to the window, and stared out. She followed his gaze to a broken sky, to rays of sun streaming through fast-moving clouds. She loved the play of light and dark on the French tricolor, the limestone buildings and slate roofs, the bridges of the Seine. She gave him time to consider.

He turned to her. “I agree, but…” He shrugged. It was a Gallic gesture of futility, of humor, of hope.

“One of the reasons I love France is your pursuit of truth and liberty. It deserves a daily revolution in the mind.”

He shook his head and smiled. “So you think she didn’t kill the woman?”

“I didn’t say that. I think she had help.”

“One thing I’ll say about you, your French has improved, but you’re still as stubborn.”

She explained her plan.

Chapter 42: Rue d’Assas

The sky was ominous when Serafina knocked on the door to the small home at 23, Rue d’Assas. She waited. As she stood there, she felt sharp drops of water pelt her cape. The wind swirled leaves and small branches. They twirled in midair before descending once again and skidding down the street. She felt her matted hair, felt the water running down the side of her head and into her ear. She knocked again, louder this time.

Presently she heard footsteps. The door opened and Gaston’s butler appeared, just as fussy looking as the first time she’d seen him.

Serafina held out her card and he peered at it, pursed his lips, and pretended he did not recognize her.

“My name is Serafina Florio, but most people call me Donna Fina. I’m here on rather urgent business to see Monsieur Etienne Gaston. You remember me, I’m sure. I was here a few weeks ago, and this is a continuation of that meeting with him. If I may say so, you’re wearing a lovely shirt, the lace exquisitely crafted.

The butler simpered. “Won’t you come in, Madame? I’ll see if he’s in. This way, please,” and he led her into the receiving room. She remembered it from a few weeks ago, the stuffy atmosphere and the musty smell.

“You didn’t tell her I’m busy?” She heard Gaston’s irritation coming from the hall.

Looking harried, Gaston entered the room and gave her a curt nod. “Madame, I have very little time, very little time indeed. What is it? I’m about to give a lecture at the Academie des Sciences.”

“Again?” She doubted it. She looked at his face. It was wan, the skin yellowed, more wrinkled than she remembered. She stared at him until she saw the small compress on his face and everything fell into place.

“Sit please. I’m much in demand and can spare you only a brief moment or two.”

“You helped Elena, didn’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“You helped Elena kill the woman in the Rue Cassette, didn’t you?”

He looked at her, his eyes frozen. “How dare you!”

“She couldn’t have done it without you. She needed you. She loved you, then she despised you, but she was passion personified and you soared in her arms. Hers was sparkling conversation, a world of parties and salons, of artists and poets. She made a heaven of your hell, and she carried your child. And when she needed your help, needed you to find an expendable body, you had one at the ready, didn’t you? And it was perfect for you, wasn’t it, because you found the woman who’d given you that wretched disease-the disease you then passed on to Elena.”

“Enough!”

“And when she needed your help to pull the trigger, you pulled it, didn’t you? Elena was too short to reach the woman’s head, so you stood in back of the duped soul and fired into her brain, the bullet angling downward. What was the name of the woman you shot?”

“I… don’t know.”

“You slept with her then shot her and you don’t even know her name.”

He looked from left to right, backed away from Serafina and hit the arm of a chair, teetering off balance. “Fabrication!”

She moved in his direction. “Fabrication, indeed,” Serafina said. “You’re lying. Lied to me before and you’re lying to me now.”

She took a few more steps toward him.

He shook his head. “N-no, not true.” He backed away.

“You lied about how long Elena stayed with you on the night she disappeared and when I asked you if you had a gun, you told me it was a revolver and it was missing.”

“Yes, missing, I tell you!”

“But you keep a set of pistols in the wooden box right here, don’t you? Why did you go upstairs to check?”

“I needed to be sure…”

She walked over to the box and opened the lid. Lifting it, she showed him the green felt, the empty depressions made for a pair of pocket pistols.

His eyes darted around the room.

“Take the bandage from your face.”

“How rude!”

“Remove the bandage. Show me the lesion.”

“Enough.\!”

“You don’t have much time. Confess. Ease the burden. Grant yourself some peace.”

He darted left, right, and in a few steps bounded to the hall, opened the front door and stared into the faces of Valois and his assistant.

Chapter 43: Glace au Four

The Loffredo’s were settled in their apartment-at least for the most part-and with some exceptions, they began to enjoy Paris. The children spent time exploring the city, wandering the many parks, attending the expositions at the Palais de l’Industrie, treating themselves to pastry, switching from Sicilian to Italian to French without realizing it. They were always accompanied by Assunta who met friends in the many parks. She told Serafina that she must be in heaven. “Pinch me, please, Donna Fina.”

All the bedrooms were sorted. Loffredo had his study. Although she missed her mother’s sitting room, Serafina spent her thinking time in the ladies’ parlor or for particularly knotty problems, in the conservatory where she could look out over the city and let her mind wander.

Serafina and Loffredo were dressed and sitting in two of the parlor’s Louis XV chairs waiting for their guests to arrive.

“Where did Rosa get that fancy butler?” Loffredo asked.

Serafina smiled. “Jacques? He adds a certain je ne sais quois to her teas, don’t you think? He worked for Gaston. Last week she knocked on his door, looked the butler up and down, and offered him a job on the spot.”

Because of their move to Paris, as well as her happiness, Serafina’s figure had returned to a more youthful appearance and she wore her favorite dress, a deep French blue with organdy flounces for the occasion. Loffredo was Loffredo, gorgeous as always in formal attire. To celebrate the longest day of the year, they had invited the Valois family and Levi Busacca, the first dinner guests in their new home, although Busacca had visited on prior occasions and stayed for tea. An old man, aging rapidly after the death of his daughter, he accepted the invitation with pleasure but stated he’d leave soon after the meal. Except for Carlo, the whole family would be together. And Rosa and Tessa, of course.

Serafina hadn’t seen Giulia or Carmela since the afternoon of their arrival nearly a month ago. As she stared at the glass above the mantel, she couldn’t help thinking of Oltramari and Carlo. No word from him, but it was too soon for his reply to the letter they’d written two weeks ago, all of them penning something. She fought the churning pit in her stomach. Perhaps her oldest son had been right. She should have paid Don Tigro his protection money. It was the idea of payment for no services rendered that she found abhorrent, and Loffredo agreed. She couldn’t pay him, wouldn’t do it. But it was also the visit to Paris that drew her away from the increasingly meager joy that life in Oltramari had become.

The mystery surrounding Elena Busacca’s death and disappearance was over as far as the police were concerned. Not to Serafina, however. The absence of one truth continued to nag. “I need to ask him a few questions tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”

As soon as the press got wind of it, the news of Etienne Gaston’s arrest for the murder of a streetwalker made the front page of La Presse. Parisians wallowed in the story for two weeks.

“He was a minor figure with some following, a scholar, known to university professors and the Academie des Sciences perhaps, but he wasn’t generally known by the public,” Loffredo said, “until the journalists got hold of him. They blew him up into a personality, aggrandizing his importance.”

“You mean those inky fingers created Gaston out of newsprint,” Serafina said.

“Precisely. Turned him into someone the public loved to hate. People swore they’d followed his career for years, although a month ago he was unheard of. It was brave of Valois to imprison him.”

“The inspector found it distasteful, I could tell by the way he held his mouth,” Serafina said. “But I’ve grown fond of Alphonse.”

Some of the lesser papers gave juicier accounts of Gaston’s affair with Elena. Others treated it as a cautionary tale, mentioning Elena Busacca’s disappearance and her role in falsifying her own death, her life as a demimonde, her rapid dissolution, and her ultimate suicide.

“When Tarnier told me why he treated her, I knew she was doomed,” Loffredo said. His eyes roamed the walls looking for comfort, finding it, she hoped, in her eyes. They kissed.

“Weren’t you frightened? I mean, she was your wife.” Serafina had longed to ask Loffredo whether he worried about his own physical wellbeing but was afraid. If in a moment of loneliness, he and Elena had taken comfort in each other-only natural, they were after all husband and wife-then Elena may have passed on a disease that might mean her own demise. But Serafina believed there were areas of a person that should remain private even in a marriage, and she wouldn’t invade that part of Loffredo, not ever. She had no hesitation about asking her children anything, their most secret thoughts, for instance, but that was another matter.

“I was frightened for her, not for me. She was my wife in name only. We never… I couldn’t manage to…”

“Not even on your wedding night?”

He shook his head.

“You mean you were celibate all that time until we began to…?”

He nodded. “Over twenty years.”

Serafina felt the hot stirring of her blood. She dabbed her forehead with a linen, not daring to touch him. She consulted her watch. Their guests would be here any minute. Best to fan herself and change the subject.

She rose and kissed the top of his head, contenting herself with drawing a circle round his ear. Lest she take a deeper step in that direction from which there’d be no return, she strolled into the dining room where the table had been set with linen, silver, crystal, and Limoges.

Rosa had settled in. By now she knew half the arrondissement. Her afternoon gatherings were quite the thing, and not just for their tea and delicate sweets. A growing number of guests frequented her apartment to be entertained and to be seen. They listened to her talk with hushed attention, some adding a salacious detail or two they’d picked up, but all realizing that Rosa, with her first-hand knowledge of the more sordid details of society-the Busacca incident for one-had little compunction in telling her tales.

How their lives had changed. Serafina and her family were used to sitting at a plain round table in a familiar setting, the kitchen in their home in Oltramari. But she looked around at the opulence of the dining room, its polished mahogany table, the crystal chandelier suspended high above it, the shiny parquet floors that Toto loved to slide on, the oriental carpets, the damask drapes, and began to feel at home.

Their expenses were far greater here than in Oltramari and she knew they’d increase, but that didn’t seem to bother Loffredo who managed the ledger now that Vicenzu worked for Busacca. In the fall there’d be schooling for Toto and they must engage a femme savante dedicated to Maria’s non-musical education. And of course they’d need more servants-Assunta couldn’t keep the apartment by herself. So Rosa who’d made friends with all of the building’s residents, found Serafina an out of work butler, a parlor maid, and a young maid to help out in the kitchen.

Through Rosa’s new butler, Jacques, they’d found a music teacher for Maria, one who would prepare her for entry into the Paris Conservatory where she would study piano and composition. The school was located in the ninth arrondissement, one of the first conservatories in the world to admit females, but it was a long trek for a ten-year old. Loffredo had taken her there every day, walking with her along the Seine until they reached the Tuileries, then northeast to the far corner of the ninth arrondissement where Maria would stare at the building that housed her new passion. The move had been good for Maria, Loffredo told Serafina. She was no longer a queen bee, but just one of thousands with musical talent, determined to make her way. Soon she knew the route by heart, and they’d take shortcuts and detours, roaming the streets, nodding to the neighborhood, but Maria would always find her way to Rue du Conservatoire. “Closed for the year,” Loffredo told her the first time they’d found it, but he told Maria to imagine the students filing in and out. She told him she could feel the longing in her fingers. Mornings and afternoons she practiced on the grand piano in the second-floor ballroom, never tempted by the breathtaking view of Paris.

But there were moments when Serafina thought they’d made a mistake moving to Paris, a few times when she’d lain awake tossing, turning, smelling again in her mind the charred remains of the apothecary shop or the sweet fragrance of the public gardens. And she’d have a few pangs of regret even in the sumptuous parks of Paris when she’d listening in vain for the sounds of her native tongue on the boulevards and streets. Then the longing for her native land took her breath away and she’d have to sit.

Last week when she began planning the meal, Renata had asked for Serafina’s help with the menu, the wine list, and the seating.

The seating was the easiest part, Serafina told her, “Loffredo and I at either end, seven on each side. We’ll begin with Loffredo’s right where we must seat Busacca.”

Renata nodded and began drawing a diagram. “Opposite Busacca, we must put Vicenzu, and next to him, Carmela.”

“Perfect,” Serafina declared. “Let’s put Teo and Arcangelo close to Busacca as well. He’s a man with many connections in this town.”

“Too many men on one end of the table I think,” Renata said when she looked at their first seating diagram.

“Then you’ll sit next to Busacca across from Arcangelo and we’ll put Carmela next to him. I hope for your sake he’s changed the bandages on his foot and ankle, but the aroma of your cooking will mask its sourness, I hope.”

“Mama!”

“Who should we place next to you?” Renata asked.

“Francoise Valois on my right, the inspector on my left.”

“I’m beginning to see the reason for this dinner, Renata said.

“Connections and work, of course. What else is there?” Serafina asked.

“What about friendship and conviviality, the love of food and wine, the celebration of light?” Renata asked.

“Of course, my sweetness, but we must also make room for conniving. We have to live, don’t we?” She threw this last part out to Rosa who had entered.

“What are you so worried about? Loffredo’s loaded and he’s your husband now. That makes you a countess. Better start acting like one. The French love aristocracy, you know. You need a new wardrobe and you should be frequenting the parks with your nose held high and show a little more of your decollete, especially now that the weather is warm. You cover everything up. Countesses don’t do that. What’s wrong with Giulia, she should be designing daring frocks for you? Instead, you wear a long face and sit inside hunched and fretting. Leave Oltramari behind you and live. And by the way, I’ve just had a letter from Scarpo who watches both our houses and takes care that the guards are properly stationed. All is well.”

“Except for Carlo,” Serafina said. “I feel it.”

Rosa said nothing.

“Then help us plan the meal.”

The madam rubbed her hands together and spoke to Renata. “Create something worthy of Paris in the summer, but of course you will. And no pasta, please. Not a time to show off Sicilian cuisine. You’ve been to Les Halles, haven’t you?”

“Every day. The vendors tip their hats to me now.”

Serafina stopped her reverie and looked at her watch. Two minutes to eight. Time to receive her guests. She walked back and whispered in Loffredo’s ear. “Bet on the first to arrive?”

“I say the Valois family.”

She shook her head. “Giulia, perhaps, or Busacca, but of course never Carmela.”

“Not fair, choose one.”

“Busacca, then.”

He kissed her. “And we bet for what?”

“The usual,” she said.

“Either way, I win.”

The Valois were the first to arrive, followed quickly by Busacca. The butler took their things and showed them to the parlor and there were introductions, hugs and kisses and more commotion when Carmela and Giulia arrived, then Rosa and Tessa.

“The last to arrive are those who travel the least.”

“Who said that?”

“I just did.”

They formed small groups or looked out the window at the view, the bustle of traffic below, in awe of the luminous quality of the summer sky. Valois took Loffredo aside and began a conversation. Serafina watched Loffredo nodding as Valois spoke but was too busy to hear them. Presently Valois laughed and clapped Loffredo on the back and the two men shook hands. She complimented Francoise on her dress, a blue silk in summer weight that matched her eyes. For her part, Francoise admired the view and the furniture.

“You had to kill for this room, eh, Serafina?” Valois said, stroking his lapel.

“Not me, but someone had to.” She introduced Francoise to Carmela and Giulia.

“Giulia is the designer at the House of Grinaldi.”

“Madame, your dress is stunning,” Giulia said. “So light and summery,” she said, hugging Tessa who joined the group and wore a dusky pink of light silk with overskirts of organza. “I don’t think it’s one of ours, but quite lovely and fits you perfectly.”

“And Mama, have you nothing better to wear?” Giulia asked.

“But you made it, Giulia. Now you don’t like your own work?”

“It’s seven years old.”

Serafina shrugged.

Rosa was wearing a new gown of green linen and made room for Busacca.

“Good to see you, Levi. You’ve been up to no good, I can see by your eyes.”

“Why is it that La Grinaldi will not recommend my millinery to her clients?” Busacca asked, a twinkle in his eye despite his arm band.

“Now she does,” Carmela said and Giulia nodded. “We took care of that, Levi, and intend to pay our respects to all the houses of fashion. Time to go back to Palermo. Your wife misses you.”

“I leave a week from yesterday, now that my business is in the competent hands of your family. Vicenzu and Ricci work well together and David is learning to spend in order to make.”

“And Sophie?”

He shook his head. “Not a dinner subject, but she’ll come around. She insists she and her oldest son are innocent of all wrongdoing.”

Serafina, Rosa, and Francoise worked together to change the subject.

“And Tessa?”

“The summer of course but she’s making the conservatory into her studio and hopes to join Academie Julian as soon as she has a portfolio. My girl is happy; I’m happy. We bask in the gaiety of Paris.”

Two servants walked around the room offering hors d’oeuvres while Rosa’s butler, helping out for the evening along with two of her maids, carried trays of champagne flutes.

“Don’t you dare, Toto,” Serafina said as he reached for a glass. Charlus looked up at his mother who shook her head. In a few minutes, he and Toto had become friends.

Loffredo toasted his guests and Valois toasted the successful end to the Gaston case. Neither Serafina nor Busacca joined in. “Not quite yet, I’m afraid, Alphonse.” The conversation paused. Francoise elbowed Valois and Busacca arched a brow.

Serafina introduced Charlus to Toto.

“We’re already friends,” Toto said.

“Charlus goes to Louis Le Grand. Show him the conservatory and the ballroom, and only take one canape at a time, please, and no champagne for you. Ah, here are two flutes with mineral water. Perhaps he can point out his school for you while there’s still light. And take Teo and Maria with you.” She saw Teo’s face flush and Maria toss her curls.

“The sun doesn’t set until 9:58 tonight.” Charlus uncovered his wrist, showing a gold watch with a large face. In the middle was a sun turning into the moon and stars. Serafina looked from Charlus to Toto, who looked from the wrist of his friend to his mother.

“Such a nice watch, Charlus,” Serafina said.

“A gift for my birthday last week.”

“And we didn’t know.”

“See?” he asked, showing the watch to Toto, “we have almost two hours.”

“But how much time, precisely?” Alphonse asked. He and Loffredo had finished their corner conversation and were now looking at Charlu’s wrist.

“One hour and fifty-seven minutes,” Toto said, taking a deviled egg, popping it into his mouth and helping himself to another. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“My mother says you play the piano,” Charlus said to Maria as they walked toward the door.

She nodded.

Teo followed.

Arcangelo stood at the window talking to Giulia, Carmela, and Busacca.

Taking advantage of Busacca’s absence, Valois walked up to Serafina, Francoise, and Loffredo. “One thing puzzles me,” Valois said. “Why was Dr. Tarnier treating Elena and not someone more familiar with her disease?”

“As a courtesy, and because she was with child,” Loffredo said. “He was asked by a friend of Elena, but he told me he recommended that she see Dr. Alfred Fournier, a renowned specialist in the treatment of syphilis. He is professor at the Paris Faculty of Medicine and practices at the l’Hopital de Lourcine on the Rue Pascal, but… Elena had her own mind.” He shrugged.

“Yes, I know his work.” Francoise set her champagne glass down on the tray offered to her by the maid.

They were interrupted by the butler who opened the doors. “Dinner is served, mesdames et messieurs.”

Serafina must admit it, the dining room looked lovely with the shimmering gas lights of the chandelier, the flames of the candelabra, and the lilies and lavender from Rosa’s garden as a centerpiece.

They began with bouillabaisse served in hand-painted Limoges bowls Renata found in the china hutch. The butler poured the wine, a rich-tasting Chablis from Burgundy that Loffredo thought was the perfect temperature, and a maid brought out fresh baguettes and sticks of salted bread.

“The rouille is delicious, and the bouillabaisse divine. I must have your recipe.”

“Like ‘ La Divine Sarah ’?” Carmela asked.

Serafina much preferred the single conversation produced at a round table, but after a few glasses of champagne and Chablis, she decided words and phrases had their place, too. She strained to listen to Carmela talking to Busacca about Sarah Bernhardt.

“And I suppose you saw Phedre and didn’t tell me,” Serafina said.

“Not as exciting as this bouillabaisse, my compliments,” said Busacca, lifting his glass.

“Reminds me of a bouillabaisse we had in Marseille once. Remember, Alphonse?”

“Only this is better,” the inspector said.

A maid came in offering extra napkins to those who wanted them. Toto, his face a mass of sauce, raised his hand for one.”

“I met a chef in Marseille when we were waiting for our train,” Renata began.

“You never told me,” Serafina said.

Renata ignored her. “I tripped on the stairs going up to the station and he helped me. He was on his way to Paris to cook for the chief of state and we started talking about food. I told him I’d read about bouillabaisse and wanted to try it some day. The following week we met at Les Halles and he showed me which vendors he knew and gave me his recipe.”

“How did I miss this?” Serafina asked.

Renata blushed. “I’m not sure.”

“I am,” Rosa said. “So is this a romance de cuisine?”

“Don’t be silly. For all she knows, the man is married,” Serafina said.

“We agreed to write and exchange recipes, that’s all.”

Toto was busy slurping up sauce from his bowl with a piece of baguette and stuffing it into his mouth, leaning a little too far into his bowl as far as Serafina was concerned.

“I have a lobster in a net at the bottom of my soup,” Toto said, holding his empty bowl up for Charlus to see.

Serafina shot him a look. She could see she’d made a mistake not seating Valois closer to Loffredo and asked him if he’d had the chance to visit with Ricci and retrieve the photographs and plates.

“Yes, a rather complicated and mean twist to this unfortunate affair. A story for another time,” he said, nodding toward Busacca.

“Later perhaps.” She told him of Busacca’s plans to leave after the meal. “He’s an old man now who tires easily.”

“Yes, we saw her last month, or was it two months ago,” Carmela said.

“Who, dear?”

“Sarah Bernhardt, of course. Quite bizarre, her acting, but mesmerizing,” Carmela said.

“If you’re not used to the French stage, you can find it quite an experience the first time, outre, perhaps,” Francoise said. “The actors declaim. They tell me it is an acquired taste, but I’ve seen it all my life.”

“We must go,” Rosa said. “Have you seen Bernhardt?” she asked Francoise.

“No. We meant to go, but Alphonse has been so busy, especially with the Elena case and of course crime does not wait until one case has been resolved.”

Valois nodded, but his heart wasn’t in the conversation.

While two maids cleared the soup bowls, Renata herself brought out the chicken, three Poulets de Bresse fried in olive oil and butter, glazed with creme fraiche and placed on a bed of vegetables. A maid followed with potatoes in a cream sauce and shallots.

Francoise turned to Serafina. “I think Alphonse means to ask you if you’d be interested in doing some work for him.”

“And I meant to tell you, a woman on the third floor needs you to find her daughter,” Rosa said, watching them serve the meal. “Where is Jacques with the wine?” she asked, but just then he appeared, poured some liquid into Loffredo’s glass and when he nodded, served everyone else.

“A Chateauneuf du Pape,” I believe, Valois said.

“Bravo, you know your wines.”

He smiled. “I saw the label.”

As the meal continued, the conversation became more animated, especially at the other end of the table with Carmela and Giulia arguing the acting ability of Sarah Bernhardt.

“Are we still on her?” Serafina asked.

“She is quite something, you should see her,” Francoise said. “Her morals, well, we all know about them, but what can you expect from an actress? You must visit the studio of Nadar, a photographer who is taken with her. He exhibits some of his portraits of her that are truly beautiful. We saw them at the Palais de L’Industrie-when was it, Alphonse?”

He shrugged.

“She has a certain charm. She’s taken our hearts, you know.”

“I’m still not convinced,” Serafina said, watching them clear the plates.

“You remind me of her,” Francoise said.

Giulia and Carmela began to clap. “You do, Mama! Same nose, same hair, same gestures, especially when you’re in a mood.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Serafina felt hot color swim up from her neck to her cheeks.

“Loffredo, tell them.”

There was silence while he focused on the question. “I never thought to make the comparison.” Serafina saw him narrowing his gaze. “No, I cannot agree. Fina is a unique star and for me no one compares.”

“Two things that do not lie,” Busacca said. “The blanch and the blush.”

“Coffee and dessert will be served upstairs in a few minutes,” Serafina said, dabbing her mouth with a linen and laughing with Francoise.

Valois made his way to Loffredo and Busacca asked the butler for his hat and cane. “Forgive an old man,” he said to Serafina. “This is the last I’ll see of you in Paris for a while. Despite what you must think, I am happy with your work. My daughter was a deep disappointment, and I cry every night for her. My wife is inconsolable, I know, but for me, Elena died a long time ago.”

Serafina looked at Rosa. Both were at loss for words. Serafina kissed him on both cheeks and asked him what he did about paying money for his store’s protection.

“Busacca Millinery is a rare exception. We’ve complied with odious laws, hidden, been clever, created unrivaled goods and survived since 1282. Next to the Inquisition, what is the mafia? They wouldn’t dare mess with us. But don’t second guess your decision to leave. It was the right one for you. Your son stayed behind?”

“School.”

The expression on his face was inscrutable. “I’ll keep you informed.”

After she helped him with his cape, she walked with him to the street where his carriage waited. “I cannot thank you enough for your help,” she said. He cocked his head but made no reply and stood there a moment, a stooped soul, wrapped in his grief.

After Serafina returned to the apartment, she walked over to Loffredo and Valois and asked him again about the photographs.

“You were right. The photographer was the link,” Valois said.

They stood in the foyer and continued their conversation, reluctant to climb the stairs and join the others.

“It’s a complicated story, mean and somewhat daring, but our police photographer-the one who took the photos of the dead woman shortly after we discovered the body-was a friend of Beniamino de Masson long before they colluded in the Elena affair.”

“No doubt they’ve always been up to no good,” Loffredo said.

“A bad seed from the time he was two, Sophie, his mother said of her oldest son.”

Serafina stared at Valois, then lost herself for a moment while she considered something.

“More about Sophie in a moment,” Valois said.

“Back to their involvement with Elena,” Serafina said, glancing up, glad to see that Rosa and Francoise were in the middle of a conversation about something or other, doubtless having to do with Tessa’s painting ability-Rosa, the campaigner.

“Elena approached Beniamino and asked him to help her disappear. She chose well. She and Beniamino were first cousins and kindred souls. We’ve had our eye on him for a while. He’s been involved in thievery, extortion, fraud, minor crimes.”

“Perhaps to you, but not to me,” Loffredo said, wrapping his arm around Serafina’s waist.

Valois smiled and continued. “Together the photographer and Beniamino helped Elena fake her own death.

“How?”

“Seems the photographer knew a guard at Prison Saint-Lazare. Are you familiar with it?”

Serafina shook her head.

“You will be, I fear. Confiscated from the Lazarists during the Reign of Terror in 1793, it was turned into a keep for women by Napoleon. It’s a large prison with an all-female population on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. For the most part, the women are well-treated. The prisoners don’t think so, of course-they call it ‘Saint-Lago’. But the first offenders and those awaiting trial are allowed to rent large cells. They have maid service and special food.”

Loffredo closed his eyes.

“In one wing, prostitutes are medically treated for crimes against the city’s sanitary laws, namely for having a venereal disease. In this city, street women must pass a physical exam every month. If they fail, they’re rounded up and taken to Prison Saint-Lazare.”

“And how does this guard fit into the…” Serafina stopped herself, suddenly understanding. “That’s where they found the woman to take Elena’s place.”

“Exactly.”

Serafina’s feet grew cold. “But I thought she was an acquaintance of Gaston.”

“Perhaps she was at one time. Or she became a symbol to him, I’m not sure. A ready scapegoat, someone he could blame for his disease. Don’t forget, we are dealing with diseased minds, desperate souls,” Valois said.

“Prostitutes are always made the scapegoats, no?” Serafina asked.

Loffredo and Valois looked at each other and shrugged.

“Syphilis is a terrible disease, and because of it, the European populations are thinning out,” Loffredo said. “Especially German and French males.”

“Venereal disease and war,” Valois said.

“So to continue,” Serafina said.

“Most of the women are cared for by an order of nuns and are given good care. As you can imagine, the female prison population can be a rough lot, foul-mouthed and ungrateful. The nuns put up with insults, salty language. Their lives are not easy. But this guard watched les cachots, the cells housing those in solitary confinement, and according to their plan, he promised one of these women, a desperate prostitute, freedom in exchange for a small favor. All she had to do was deliver a package to a woman in the Rue Cassette. Thrilled by the prospect of being free, she agreed. And so in the early morning hours of April 16, the guard led her out through the prison courtyard, threw her into a wagon used for transporting the women, and drove her to the Rue Cassette, releasing her steps from where Elena and Gaston waited.”

“Terrible,” Loffredo said.

Valois nodded.

“How much did Elena pay?” Serafina asked.

“In return for finding the woman, Elena paid Beniamino a sum of two million francs, but asked for IOUs to explain the withdrawal, should her father ever question it.”

“And that’s where the IOUs come in,” Serafina said.

“Right. Since Beniamino wanted to hurt his youngest brother, he created IOUs totaling two million francs, but signed them with his brother’s name.”

“Nice brother.”

“How is it that children from one family can be so different?” Serafina asked.

“You don’t want to hear my answer,” Valois said.

“I’ve heard your answer, and I don’t believe it. I believe we can all grow, make amends, and change.”

Loffredo nodded.

“Some of the rest of the story you know. When we discovered the body, I asked our photographer to record the event. Later he stole the prints and the plates. What you don’t know is that he presented them to Beniamino and was paid his fee. And bad seed that he was, Beniamino pleaded with Ricci to hide the plates and photos in the store he managed on Rue du Mont-Parnasse.”

“The beast. And Sophie knew of this plan?”

“She denies having any knowledge of the plan to obtain the woman, but there are discrepancies in her story. In the end, we know she agreed to the fraud and was happy to take her share of the two million francs. But along with her son, the photographer, and the prison guard, she will be tried for conspiracy and murder. As of now. She’s an old woman, going blind. I doubt she’ll be made to live out her days in prison. The jury will have mercy.”

“How could she not know about the plan to procure a woman of the streets?” Serafina asked.

“Blinded by greed?”

“What about Gaston?”

He shook his head. “The four men-Beniamino, the photographer, the guard, and Gaston-are held without bail in Prison de Mazas, accused of conspiring to murder. For now Sophie’s in Prison Saint-Lazare.”

“And Busacca knows all this?”

“Perhaps not everything. He knows his sister awaits trial for her part in the murder and attempted fraud. But our case is weak. We are certain she knew about the murder of the woman, but she hasn’t admitted it. She has a large cell separated from the rest of the inmates for which she pays seven or eight francs a month. The nuns take good care of her and listen to her sobbing tale, but there she is.”

“I must visit her,” Serafina said.

“I hoped you’d say that. Permission has been granted.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’ll be interested to hear what you find out.”

She heard Maria’s piano wafting down from above and wrinkled her brow. “It’s not Scarlatti.”

“Saint-Saens, perhaps,” Loffredo said. “A French composer, anyway.”

They were interrupted by the butler carrying a silver tray followed by Renata and two maids carrying the cafe, profiteroles, and cannoli.

“Upstairs all of you, or you’ll miss the glace au four!” Renata said.

Chapter 44: Prison Saint-Lazare

Serafina paid the driver and looked up at Prison Saint-Lazare, a mammoth gothic structure converted to a women’s prison in the beginning of the century. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell, feeling her stomach do somersaults, coming to rest on her bones. After presenting her papers to the porter, Serafina was ushered into a small waiting room. She looked at the drab walls and the plain furniture, the shutters on the window, the crucifix on the wall, and decided Sophie was in a warm place in the prison, well cared for by the sisters of Marie-Joseph.

“Why are you here?” Sophie asked after she was guided into the room and helped to her seat by a nun. The old lady’s sight had diminished in the few short weeks since Serafina first met her.

“Because I have questions and you’re the only one who has the courage to answer them.”

Sophie scoffed, but for the first time looked at Serafina.

“The first time I met you, you spoke of your oldest son, Beniamino.”

Sophie looked away.

There was silence. It filled the room, the corners, the crevices in the worn floorboards and stretched beyond the prison’s gates to the world outside where all street noise for the moment seemed to stop. Serafina’s heart thudded against the walls of her chest. She must not fail, she must find the truth, and she believed this woman was the key.

“Do you know where Beniamino is? Last time we spoke of him, you mentioned the south of France.”

Sophie worked her mouth back and forth, but made no reply.

“Why did you encourage Elena to feign her death?”

Sophie straightened. She opened her mouth, but closed it again, moved her jaw from side to side. She said nothing.

Again Serafina remained still, aware of the how the sun oozed from behind the window shade and made pools of light on the walls and floor. She stared at Sophie, letting silence do its work.

“She was my niece and she needed help, asked for it. We gave it.”

“We?”

Sophie said nothing.

“We’ve had a cool spring, at least compared to Oltramari.”

Sophie’s laugh was a bark. “Sweltered most days in Oltramari. I was a girl and had servants to fan me then. Here, you see, the temperature is milder, but wait until the winter. You’ll freeze.”

“The nuns take good care of you.”

She nodded.

“You were the brains behind it, weren’t you? I see your brilliance upon this whole affair.”

Silence. Serafina looked at her watch. She was allotted twenty minutes and had used five and was nowhere near the core of what Sophie knew.

“Why?”

“Because Beniamino has no inkling, not the faintest idea of how to run a business or how to grasp what he does not have.”

“None of your business,” Sophie said.

“When you were a girl in Oltramari, did you ever dream you’d land in Paris with a husband and three sons?”

“Are you here to chat?”

“Chatting, passing the time-that’s what you’re doing with me. You played them all for fools, but you can’t fool me. And finding the brains behind the disappearance of Elena Loffredo is my business,” Serafina said. “Anything concerning Elena is my business. She’s caused me endless trouble. She’s been a thorn in my side for over thirty years. So now I want to understand how you decided to help her fake her death.”

Serafina watched Sophie’s hands grasp each other and twist.

“When she came to you, distraught and with child, she wanted Beniamino’s address in the south of France, didn’t she? She wanted to get away from Paris, from the voices that haunted her, but you gave her something more. Your mind went to work.”

Sophie raised her head, said nothing, but she was listening, Serafina could feel the iron of the old woman’s mind galvanizing to attention.

“You were the one who suggested she disappear, that she fake her death, weren’t you?”

Again Sophie was silent, but for an instant, Serafina thought she saw the gleam of a smile.

“You found Beniamino in the south of France, hauled him home, told him how much in debt you were and unless he helped, he’d be doomed to a life of poverty. You pulled him, prodded him until he told you about a friend he had, a guard at the very prison we sit in who could help. Your brains, Sophie, and Beniamino’s friend. And if that wouldn’t work, you had other ideas, other places, perhaps more dangerous, to procure a fallen woman, a dupe.”

“I’m the one with ideas. The stupid cow hadn’t an inkling of what to do. My sons sit there, hopeless, waiting for me to think. Ricci, a coward, refused to help; David, a fearful sod, huddled away from the light begged me not to involve him. Only Beniamino had the courage.”

“When you’d thought it through, you sent for Elena, presented your plan, gave her your terms.”

She nodded, a crooked smile on her face, her eyes without light. “I told her she needed to disappear. Paris was too great a distraction. Slovenly trollop. I had to get her out of Paris-she was giving our family a bad name, don’t you see? ‘The sun will cure you,’ I told her, ‘you need to paint, create your legacy for the world.’”

“And she listened.”

“Oh, she listened, of course she did. I flattered her, just like you tried to do with me because you think I’m a fool. But I’m the one with the brains. I know how to achieve. The three Busacca stores will crumble without me. I give them a year. Yes, I presented my plan to her. She thought it was wonderful.” Sophie rubbed her hands. “I’d found the perfect dupe. My plan was a superb feat.”

“You had it all thought out, didn’t you? Including a fee up front, a quick burial before I or anyone who’d recognize the truth had the chance to see the dead woman’s body. You had her change her beneficiaries with a few strokes of the pen.”

“What kind of harm did we cause? The woman who took her place was a harlot, diseased. She was going to die anyway. And Elena was no better. Levi should have seen, but he’s blind. He threw money at her and went back to Sicily where he didn’t have to face what his daughter had become.” Sophie flicked her hand back and forth as if by doing so she could get rid of whatever was in her way. “But I needed the money, our money, the family’s money, and I had to live in Paris where the gossips are frightful. I took back what was rightfully ours and got rid of the tarnish to our name, that’s all.”

Chapter 45: From the Conservatory

From their conservatory where they enjoyed an after-dinner cafe, Serafina gazed out over all of Paris, Loffredo by her side. The street lamps had long ago been lit, and the city before them seemed like a magical kingdom.

“Valois told me that Haussmann had fifteen thousand gas lamps installed on the streets of Paris.”

“Tomorrow let’s go to the Louvre if it rains. We have one more day to celebrate before I start to work,” Loffredo said.

“And if the sun shines?”

“The Medici Pool in the Luxembourg gardens. I have something to give you.”

Serafina smiled. “At the Medici Pool?”

Loffredo kissed the top of her head. “Was Valois surprised when you told him?”

“He tried to hide it, but yes, he was. Not used to Sicilian women.”

“But Sophie is a Frenchwoman now.”

“On paper, yes, and I’ve gotten as close to the truth as I will ever be on this case.”

“You’ve not uncovered the whole truth?”

Serafina shook her head. “There’s no such thing as uncovering the whole truth, unless you’re the Madonna.”

“Does she tell her Son?”

Serafina arched a brow. “Most of the time. But we poor mortals, we dig and dig and dig and never reach the bottom.”

They embraced, and Paris shimmered in their glow.

She heard Vicenzu yelling as he clambered up the stairs. Way too early. Their bedroom door burst open and he limped toward her.

“It’s Carlo,” he said. His eyes were wild as he handed her the wire and he gulped air. “From Busacca.”

“Regret to inform you. Your family home in Oltramari burned to ground. Body of your son Carlo Florio found amid debris.”

Content

Susan Russo Anderson
Murder On The Rue Cassette

Chapter 1: Elena

Chapter 2: Levi Busacca

Chapter 3: Loffredo in Chains

Chapter 4: The Commission

Chapter 5: Preparations

Chapter 6: The Journey to Paris

Chapter 7: Arrival

Chapter 8: Sophie de Masson

Chapter 9: The Prefect of Paris

Chapter 10: The Exhibit

Chapter 11: Alphonse Valois

Chapter 12: What Carmela Discovers

Chapter 13: A Visit to the Sixth Arrondissement

Chapter 14: La Maison Doree

Chapter 15: A Visit to Elena’s Apartment

Chapter 16: The Lawyer Visits Loffredo

Chapter 17: L’Hopital del la Charite

Chapter 18: A Visit from Valois

Chapter 19: A View of Paris

Chapter 20: La Maternite

Chapter 21: Vefour

Chapter 22: Francoise and Alphonse

Chapter 23: Busacca et Fils

Chapter 24: Waiting for News

Chapter 25: A Visit with Sophie de Masson

Chapter 26: Brasserie Bofinger

Chapter 27: Le Coup de Grace

Chapter 28: A Small Shop Near the Seine

Chapter 29: An Evening with Les Mardistes

Chapter 30: Les Halles

Chapter 31: Versailles

Chapter 32: Cafe Procope

Chapter 33: A Studio in Aix

Chapter 34: Praying to the Virgin

Chapter 35: Wind, Light, Water

Chapter 36: Oltramari

Chapter 37: Pasta con le Sarde

Chapter 38: Mal de Mer

Chapter 39: Le Livre de Patisserie

Chapter 40: Hiding from the Truth

Chapter 41: Valois and Serafina

Chapter 42: Rue d’Assas

Chapter 43: Glace au Four

Chapter 44: Prison Saint-Lazare

Chapter 45: From the Conservatory