Susan Anderson: Murder On The Rue Cassette

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.”

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.”