Susan Anderson - Murder On The Rue Cassette

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.”

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.