Susan Anderson - No More Brothers

She yanked Vicenzu’s sleeve. “I need your help. It won’t take long.”

Carlo held up his hands as if to ward off the devil. “Where have I heard that before?” Turning to his brother, he said, “Be careful. Her minutes creep like hours.”

After his involvement in the initial investigation and the capture of Abatti, she couldn’t blame Carlo. She looked at Vicenzu. “Ready for a little adventure?”

The three stopped, waiting for Vicenzu’s reply. Was that a nod and a wink from her son, the one who seldom smiled, Vicenzu, the one with the numbers and the abacus and the closed purse strings?

Vicenzu opened the gate. He bowed, gestured for Carlo to enter.

“The two of you are mad.” Carlo gave them a cursory wave.

They crossed the piazza. There was a sliver of moon and no stars. Thankful for the evening’s dimness, she felt in her pockets for the candles she kept with her for late night deliveries.

Vicenzu limped beside her, his lumbering gait a familiar comfort. “When are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”

“Sorry, dear. We’re going to search the shoemaker’s shop for arsenic trioxide.”

Entering the public gardens, she felt the wings of a large bird graze her shoulder. It cackled and flapped its wings. She grabbed Vicenzu’s sleeve.

“Do we really need to do this?”

“Must satisfy myself that Rodolfo had the arsenic in his possession.”

“You’ll never have enough evidence unless he confesses.” Vicenzu pulled at his vest.

She was quiet.

“Are you sure you’re not making your task impossible because you don’t want to succeed?” he asked.

Serafina huddled inside her cape. She could see her breath. “A wild accusation!” But she knew he was right. How clever, this son of hers. Of course: she didn’t want the shoemaker to be guilty, so she had fooled herself, delayed, and made her task impossible.

She let her mind roam and they walked on. All at once, she pictured Rodolfo on the night of his son’s birth. When she opened the door to announce the newborn’s arrival, thunderous clapping. She scanned a sea of faces, but not finding the shoemaker’s, she asked after him. “Taking a walk!” someone yelled. Laughter. How long had he been gone? Was it enough time to drink with his brother? A few minutes later, he had rushed in, face flushed and looking confused, before placing coins in her palm.

Why had she forgotten his absence? In the wind, she heard the rustle of silk and her mother’s voice whispering, “To survive, we forget.”

And if Rodolfo confessed to hiring the killer of his brother, what then? He’d be guilty of murder and she would be to blame for the family’s misfortune. How would Graziella and her children survive without him? She fought the temptation to turn around and go home.

Darkness enveloped them like a cloak. She felt a frisson of fear like a creature crawling up the nape of her neck. They entered the alleyway behind the shoemaker’s stable.

She stopped. Cupping her hand around it, she held the candle steady while Vicenzu scratched the match against a cobble, waited for the flame to grow. The light it gave was weak but enough to show them the way. Somewhere a cat meowed.

Serafina’s fingers trembled as she felt for the gate. She tried the handle. “Locked!”

Vicenzu reached into his pocket, drew out a small knife, and knelt. In a moment, the latch snapped open. Swiftly she made her way up the path, Vicenzu limping softly behind.

They reached the shrubbery surrounding the back of the shoemaker’s store and peered inside. Pitch black. She hugged her sides.

Vicenzu took his time working the hasp. Finally the lock sprung and the door opened. They tiptoed inside.

“It’s got to be someplace in the back of the store.”

She held up the candle. A lone shoe stood on its side against the baseboards. On one wall hung cobbler’s tools and beneath them, a high bench that ran the width of the room. The top held cans of polish, candles, brushes, everything organized, like with like, into neat rows. Alongside was a folded leather apron. Teo’s apron. She touched it. Teo’s world. She blinked.

A cupboard took up most of the opposite wall. Serafina opened it and peered inside. A few hides hung from a pole near the top. The smell of leather was pungent. Above it was a small shelf, higher than Serafina’s head. As she rooted about for a stool to stand on, she heard a sound in the hall. Stopped. Held her breath.

What was it? The outside door scraped the floor!

She felt the rush of cool air as the latch clicked shut and, after a momentary hesitation, footsteps thudded toward them.

She sped over to Vicenzu who struggled with a jammed drawer and grabbed his sleeve. “Someone’s coming!”

He stopped. Beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks.

Footfalls grew louder.

She swallowed hard, feeling her head pound.

Vicenzu pulled her inside the cupboard and closed it just as the workroom door creaked open.

The shoemaker!

She felt a thickening in her throat, heard steps near the cupboard, the brush of wool.

She slowed her breathing, as if she were delivering and clung to Vicenzu.

But he gently pushed her aside. In one motion, he threw open the cupboard, rushed the intruder, and knocked him down.

He stooped, scooped up the figure by his lapels, and shook him. “You!”

“Came to help.” Carlo tried to wrench free. “I worried that you’d be caught. Put me down!”

“Did not. Scared us on purpose!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Boys! Put him down, Vicenzu.”

Carlo brushed the front of his coat. “Good thing I came, too. If the shoemaker and his wife had returned, they’d have caught you for sure.”

Carlo counted their foibles on his fingers as if he were a lawyer summing his case. “One, you left the gate unlatched. Two, from the alleyway, I saw candlelight flitting about inside. And three, passing the shrubbery, I heard frantic whispering from within. Ratty thieves, both of you. Next time, jump over the fence, wait until your eyes adjust to the dark, and keep your mouths shut. Found anything?”

They shook their heads.

“Then let’s search again.”

They rummaged through the room a second time, found nothing. About to leave, Carlo pointed to a tin box wedged between wall and workstation. He pried the lid. Inside was another small tin. He unscrewed it. “Doesn’t smell like-”

Vicenzu elbowed him. “Give it here. Anyway, arsenic trioxide has no smell, you clod. Breathe it and you die. Hope you got a big whiff.”

Carlo shoved him.

“Enough!” Serafina hissed.

“It seems like the stuff we sell.” Vicenzu replaced the lid. “About the right amount, too.”

Serafina’s heart sank. “Hand it over and let’s leave.”

On the way home, she thought of Graziella and her meager options. “What’s her specialness, I wonder. Does she sew? Launder? Cook?”

Vicenzu dragged his foot behind. “What are you whittering on about?”

“I’m wondering how Graziella will manage after Rodolfo’s locked up.”

“Skipping ahead, aren’t we?” Carlo asked.

“Be quiet and let me think.”

“Don’t like the sound of that, not at all.” Carlo grinned and slammed a fist into Vicenzu’s shoulder. Vicenzu picked him up by the back of his neck. “And what’s your ‘specialness’?” He spat the word.

Carlo swung his feet and arms about. “Walking on air!”

They laughed, scuffled some more.

“I’m serious!”

“Can’t let yourself win, can you?” Vicenzu tugged at his vest. “Think a moment. Poor, suffering Graziella? She has Teo. He’s a goldmine.”