Susan Anderson - No More Brothers

Serafina stared at him.

“My dear, you must learn the ropes.”

Friday, February 15, 1867

For the past two days, Serafina had been busy delivering babies and could ill afford time to uncover evidence of the shoemaker’s guilt in his brother’s murder.

But yesterday, on the pretext of delivering a fresh batch of medicinals, Serafina squeezed in another visit to Graziella. The shoemaker was not present.

The only member of the household to welcome her was Teo, who bowed when she entered. Serafina winked at him and he smiled.

But it was as if Graziella barely knew her.

“Sit, please, Donna Fina.” Teo wrapped a tongue around his lips.

Graziella sat rocking her infant, staring at something on a barren wall, not acknowledging Serafina.

“I can’t stay long.” Serafina held out a bottle. “I’ve brought you a refill of Mama’s potions.”

Graziella rocked her baby and spoke to Teo. “Put it in the cupboard.”

Serafina took her leave, thinking that the woman’s spirits seemed desolate, her house as cold and ungiving as it had been shortly after the birth of her baby. Strange, she should have snapped back into her old humor by now.

Saturday, February 16, 1867

After finishing her breakfast, Serafina folded the paper and watched Assunta clear the table. Was there evidence that Rodolfo had purchased arsenic, she wondered? She remembered her mother once telling her that the unscrupulous did a brisk business in arsenical compounds, not caring who bought how much or for what purpose. Women of all classes purchased potions from the strega laced with arsenic to rid themselves of an unwanted fetus. Most died in the process. Colorists used it to tint wallpapers. And Giorgio told her the story of Tufania d’Adamo who sold arsenic to women longing to be widows. “ Acqua Tufana , she called it. Very popular. No color. No taste. Four drops in water or wine meant instant death. Burned at the stake, our Tufania. Took the formula of the poison with her.”

But Loffredo said that the residue around Ugo’s lips was an arsenical salt, a simple garden variety, easily obtainable. He thought that Giorgio might sell it. It was the logical place to begin her search.

Serafina opened the door to the family’s apothecary shop on the far side of the piazza and was flooded with memories. She couldn’t help a few tears as she recalled Giorgio in his dark suit and starched apron, standing behind the counter, greeting customers.

Dark wood paneled the walls, their shelves filled with glass jars and vials. One wall contained life’s bathing necessities, shaving supplies for men, toiletries and perfume for women, combs, clasps, salves, creams, crutches, hot water bottles, variously sized and priced smelling salts, soaps, medicinals, and powders.

Now that her son ran the shop, Giorgio’s tendency toward jumble was missing. Everything was neatly displayed, nothing out of place, the visible sign of Vicenzu’s well-ordered mind.

“Mama, what are you doing here?”

“Do we sell arsenical compounds?”

Vicenzu rested fists on his hips. “This is about Ugo’s death, isn’t it? Can’t let it alone, can you?”

“Shhh! Not a word to any of the customers or, worse, to your brother.” She filled him in on her recent discovery of the holes in Abatti’s confession, her visits to the prisoner and the commissioner and his order that she gather more evidence connecting the shoemaker with Ugo’s death. “Abatti stuck to his confession. He claims he poisoned Ugo’s wine in Boffo’s, later met him in the Madonie and stabbed him.”

Vicenzu thought a moment. “Boffo’s is closed on Sundays.”

“Just so. I’m convinced the shoemaker hired Abatti, helped him by putting a little poison in his brother’s wine.”

“A little poison? No such thing.” Vicenzu shuffled his feet. “The dose makes the poison. But he could have laced his wine with a toxic amount of arsenic.”

“So do we sell it?”

“Arsenic trioxide. It has its uses.”

“For instance?”

“A popular rat poison. We sell it from time to time. In sufficient quantity, it can kill a man, but so can many other substances we think of as benign. You’re thinking that we may have sold the arsenic found in Ugo’s wine?”

She nodded.

“I think you’re mistaken. If someone buys arsenic to kill, he probably gets it from a strega.”

“Do you record each sale?”

He squared his shoulders. “Of course. I suppose you want to see for yourself, but I’d remember if I sold any to Rodolfo. Comes in from time to time. His wife is here more often than he. Buys toiletries, usually.”

Serafina followed Vicenzu to the back office, marveling at how much he resembled Giorgio, and sat while he combed the shelves for the records. In a while he returned, plunking down several books on the desk.

Serafina spent the next two hours looking through ledgers labeled Sales of Dangerous Compound s. Starting with the most recent, she worked her way back. Most entries were in Vicenzu’s careful script, recording date of purchase, amount, and name of buyer.

When she came to the third book and saw Giorgio’s bold lettering, her hands trembled. She bent to smell the paper, holding his scent close to her. For at least an hour, she continued poring through the records, her finger traveling down each page. Soon her eyes began to feel like rocks and she caught herself having to go back and re-read some of the words.

“Coffee?” Vicenzu asked.

“If it’s not like the syrup your father served.”

He set the cup before her and she breathed in its steam. Surprised at the warm, rich taste of the drink, she thought of mornings. Two or three swallows and she was refreshed. “You make a splendid coffee.”

He beamed.

Not a mote of dust in the store or in the back office where she sat and she felt a pang of remorse for overlooking the depth of her middle son’s spirit. Like Renata, he was not colorful, not demanding like Carlo, but quick, logical, self-effacing. He never created a fuss-well, except about coins.

She finished reading but did not find the information she sought.

At any hour on a Saturday, Boffo’s might be crowded with his late afternoon clientele, but she had some more questions for him, so she trekked across the piazza in the direction of his awning.

She was fortunate there were not many customers. Three shoppers and two British tourists were seated separately. Boffo looked up from serving one of the tables and smiled, showing his red gums.

He led the way to a quiet corner behind the bar. Serafina smelled spoiled fruit. Her stomach lurched.

“A glass of red or white? On the house, of course.”

“Did you ever see Ugo and his brother in here together?”

“You mean at the same time?” He hesitated, gave a slight shake of his head. “Can’t say as I…”

“Take your time. It’s important.”

“Well, yes, now that I think on it. Yes, by the snakes, I seen them together, the shoemaker and Ugo. Same flat face, I remember laughing to myself and thinking I was seeing double pretty early in the day. A rare sight, I might add-the brothers weren’t friends, but everyone knows that.”

“Why the bad blood between them?”

“Well, what I’ve heard…” He leaned forward and breathed vinegar near her face. “The shoemaker wrested the shop out from under Ugo’s nose. That’s what they say.”

She nodded. “Were the brothers here for the whole evening?”