Susan Anderson - No More Brothers

“Hard to follow,” Beppe said. “Lots of people in the piazza at that time on a Saturday.”

“But we did.” Arcangelo stretched his sleeves. “He went to the train station and took the six o’clock to Bagheria. Then we came home.”

Sunday, February 17, 1867

Serafina’s eyes roamed the dilapidated parlor as she waited for Mother Concetta. Dust gathered on the windowsills, made a home for itself on the cushions and in the folds of faded drapes. Was this the best that Guardian Angel Orphanage had to offer its visitors? She gazed at the crucifix listing on the wall, then realized that the room was a masterpiece, appointed with skill to snag those with deep pockets. “The gleam from the coins she’s raised would blind the Madonna ,” her mother once told her. She ought to know: they’d been friends for many years and Mother Concetta still mourned Maddalena’s loss. Besides, the old nun had sheltered Carmela when she needed it and had helped Serafina catch the Ambrosi murderer. Beneath her leathery looks was a family friend.

“Spring cleaning, the woman told me,” Mother Concetta said when Serafina asked about Graziella’s visit. “But she’s come here each year about this time to give us what she can. Yesterday she brought books, some hides our cobbler can use, a few clothes her boy had outgrown, and many of her gowns. We can re-make them into dresses for the older girls. She came from money, you know. Raised in a giving way, unlike many I could name.” The nun gave Serafina a look. “Why are you interested?”

Serafina told the nun about visiting Graziella after she delivered her latest. “She seemed, I don’t know, not altogether in the room.”

Mother Concetta shrugged and looked at her with irksome eyes. “You may feign exuberance but the world won’t always open its arms.”

Serafina ignored the barb. For the moment, she said nothing.

“But now that you mention it, the woman did seem to be elsewhere. Dignified, not a talky soul, but yesterday she was more cloaked than usual, I’d say. And she did tear up when she said goodbye.”

Monday, February 18, 1867

Early Monday morning after his breakfast, Vicenzu limped toward the door, donned his hat and coat and was about to leave when, tapping his head, he returned to the kitchen where Serafina sat finishing her breakfast.

“Staring into space again, I see.”

“Oh, yes, dear, that’s fine.”

Vicenzu seemed confused. “I found more records you’d be interested in. Papa had them squirreled in the desk apart from the others. Would you like to see them?”

She shot up like a flash and followed him out the door.

Midway through the last ledger, Serafina blinked, looked again at what she’d just read-an entry made over three years ago. Her finger traced Giorgio’s scrawl: “Thursday, December 17, 1863. 2 g, Arsenic Trioxide, sold to Pandolfina family. Rat poison, workroom.” Heart thumping, she copied the information into her notebook, then stared at the words before heading for home.

Opening the door to the shoe store, Serafina listened for the sound of the silver bell. Missing.

Teo ran his tongue around his lips and smiled. They were waiting for her on the counter, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“Thank you, Donna Fina, for everything.” He smiled.

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“Papa told me to mind the store today while he runs a special errand.”

“It seems so empty in here.”

“Usually not open this early. Too quiet on Monday mornings, but I promised your shoes would be ready.” He handed her the package.

Late Monday afternoon, Arcangelo and Beppe waited in the sitting room for Serafina.

“Nothing yesterday,” Beppe said. “Waited all morning, afternoon, evening. Shop closed. No sight of the shoemaker or his family.”

Serafina crossed her arms. “Of course. The shop’s closed on Sunday.”

“But this morning the cobbler and his son draped something over the windows and spread straw on the steps. About an hour later-”

“Less than that!” Beppe interrupted. “The shoemaker and his son left together-suited, both of them.”

“Perhaps a visit to the embalmer?”

They shook their heads. “Train station again. Returned a few minutes ago, walking swiftly, heads down, both of them.”

Serafina consulted her watch pin. “Afraid they’d be late for the wake. It begins in an hour.”

The evening of Ugo’s wake, the embalmer’s parlor was filled with dignitaries. It seemed as if the whole town had gathered, either to view the body or because Boffo had announced drinks on the house afterward.

Two carabinieri flanked the bier.

When Serafina saw Graziella seated in the corner with Teo and the baby, she walked over to pay her respects. She smiled at Teo, kissed Graziella on both cheeks. The poor woman gave her a lost smile, her eyes darting about the room while Serafina spoke words of comfort.

Excusing herself, Serafina and her sons stood in the line to greet Rodolfo.

“We can’t keep a cat in the house,” Vicenzu said. “And I caught Totò feeding it bits of tuna. Too much. I put it in the stable. Let it eat mice.”

“Whatever you say, dear.”

Carlo winked at his brother. “Dreaming.”

“Sicily bleeds,” Vicenzu muttered, “and we feed a cat.”

Serafina patted Vicenzu’s arm. “You’re right as usual. Just remember what we rehearsed.”

“Foolish, but if you insist.”

“What are you talking about?” Carlo asked.

“You’ll see. Shhh, not a word.”

Poor Vicenzu. She noticed a new stretch to the seams of his frock coat as he bent to hug the shoemaker, the way men do.

Carlo hugged Rodolfo, pecking both his cheeks and, as the eldest son should do, shook the shoemaker’s hand. “No more brothers, eh, Rodolfo? A pity.”

The shoemaker nodded.

Now it was Vicenzu’s turn to speak. Blast him, he just stood there, unmoving, the words they’d rehearsed sticking in his craw. He reached for breath, then all at once, said, “Rats all gone?”

“What?” Rodolfo’s face was the color of bleached wool. He took a step backward, bumped into his brother’s casket.

Vicenzu looked at Serafina, who shot him a soft elbow.

Her son pitched his bulk back and forth. “The arsenic you bought from us some years ago to kill the rats in your shop, did it work?”

Serafina watched the shoemaker’s face. As far as she was concerned, Vicenzu made a lurching start, but in the end, succeeded. His question had the effect on Rodolfo that she hoped it would. In her eyes, the shoemaker was guilty of his brother’s death.

“Are we going to Boffo’s?” Carlo asked on the way out.

“Not interested,” Serafina said.

As they walked home, she raised her chin to Vicenzu. “Thank you. A part well played.”

Carlo shook his head. “The shoemaker almost fainted. He knows you suspect him of having a part to play in Ugo’s death. Now I see his guilt. But a purchase of rat poison three years before the event proves nothing.”

“Of course not,” Vicenzu said. “And the ledger indicated the poison was sold to ‘The Pandolfina Family.’ Which Pandolfina family? There are dozens in Oltramari. Not like Papa to write so vague a notation.”

She turned to Vicenzu. “If I could find one more missing piece, I’d be satisfied. It won’t-”

Carlo interrupted. “You? Satisfied? Don’t believe her.”