Susan Anderson - No More Brothers

The shoemaker’s young son, Teo, was unbolting the shop’s front door when Serafina arrived.

“Is your father here or am I too early?”

The boy gave her a solemn nod, then disappeared.

Presently Rodolfo came in looking dapper, clothed for the day’s work in striped pants, starched shirt and leather apron. He was a slight man with a round, flat face, shorter than Serafina. Like many of Oltramari’s shopkeepers these days, he had a hungry look. For a second she stared at him, losing her words. Why did she hesitate? This was not the first time she’d delivered news of death.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Something’s wrong with the little one?”

“No, the baby’s fine. A spectacular set of lungs, I might add.” She thought she heard Teo scuffing about somewhere near the entrance. “Another matter entirely. Let’s sit, shall we?”

Teo appeared, carrying his books. “See you, Papa,” he called over his shoulder, carefully closing the door behind him.

Rodolfo followed Serafina and stumbled into a seat.

“We found your brother’s body this morning. Murdered, it appears. My deep sorrow for your loss.”

He laid a hand on his chest. “Murdered?” His eyes widened. “How?”

“Stabbed.”

Color drained from his face. “Where did you…” The shoemaker loosened his collar. He stared straight ahead.

“In the lower village, on the shore.”

His eyes darted from side to side. “On the shore? But that’s not…”

She said nothing for a long minute.

“Not close, Ugo and I, but my brother, all the same. Stabbed?”

She nodded. “When was the last time you saw him?”

He seemed not to hear, but sat rubbing the palms of his hands on his knees. Without warning, he stood, ran a handkerchief over his forehead. “You must excuse me. I need some time.” He struggled out of his apron, staggered a bit, sat down again, and looked at the floor. His face was mottled.

“Rodolfo?”

No answer.

“You are his closest living relative, I take it?”

He nodded.

“May I get you something? A cup of water?”

He shook his head.

“Take your time. Collect yourself. Hug Graziella. Kiss your baby. I’ll return soon. I’ve some questions.”

A uniformed man stood by the gate of Ugo’s home. Pots of wisteria and lavender withered near the stoop. Paint peeled on the door.

Inside, Serafina smiled at her son. A minor light seeped through the cracks and the air smelled sour. She opened the shutters. She looked above the mantel for Ugo’s Marsala Medal, but it was missing.

A cat meowed. Carlo picked up the thin tabby and spilled it into Serafina’s arms. It purred and kneaded her cape. They began walking around the room, Serafina touching the rim of a vase, swiping dust off a shelf, straightening the glass of a lamp. A tattered oilcloth covered the kitchen table. On it stood an empty bottle, two wine-stained glasses, crumpled table linen, and a nearly spent candle, its wick captured in a pool of cold wax. No crumbs, no dirty dishes.

“Looks like Ugo had a visitor before he died,” she said.

When Serafina turned over one of the napkins, she saw traces of the same yellowish residue she’d seen around Ugo’s mouth. The cat jumped from her arms and disappeared as she slipped the napkin and two glasses into her satchel.

Colonna swayed from side to side around the room. He peered up at the ceiling, down at the floor, ran his hand over an armrest and underneath cushions. Stopping in front of the fireplace, he said to his men, “See that loose stone? Lift it. Something’s underneath.”

While the police worked at the stone, Serafina groped her way down a dingy hall and into the bedroom. Bare mattress, sour smell, crumpled bedding, dust everywhere-a man’s room. She saw a large cabinet on the opposite wall and opened it. Instead of clothes, tarnished pieces of silver crammed the shelves. Elaborate candelabra, pitchers, serving bowls, trays, goblets, silver-encased cruets, jewel-encrusted chalices. Lifting a silver vase, she looked on the bottom and studied the hallmark, a vulture and the date, 1653, above some letters she could not read. Wedged in the back on the bottom shelf was a ledger.

Then she remembered Loffredo’s words: Ugo fenced silver for the nobility. He had contacts on the continent, no doubt, where he sold the goods. “The aristocrats of Sicily sit on balding velvet and pretend Unification never happened. They’d rather sell their heirlooms than soil their hands with trade,” Loffredo told her.

Loffredo ought to know. His father nearly disowned him when he’d learned that his son wanted to pursue a degree in medicine. “A profession is not for nobles,” he’d said. “Closes doors on access to our kind.”

Waving Ugo’s book in one hand and a silver chalice in the other, Serafina entered the living room. “Look what I found!”

No answer.

“Carlo? Colonna?”

Still no reply. She saw the two of them leaning over the table, staring into a metal box.

The inspector stuck his fat fingers deep inside and picked up a few coins. He tested one with his teeth, grinned at the ca-chink when he dropped them back into the chest, pushed them about. “ Lire and ducati, grani , even zecchini ,” he whispered. “Over a million I’d say, right inside this little box. Try to lift it, eh, Carlo?”

“Colonna, Carlo, listen to me, I found-”

“In a minute, Fina.” Colonna flapped a hand in her direction.

But the inspector and her son and the room soon became lost to her vision as she sat on the sofa and read Ugo’s ledger.

They walked back to the Municipal Building, Serafina and Colonna leading the way. In front of his office she said, “This is the brutal murder of a military hero, Pirricù. The people will want answers soon and we must be ready with facts.”

On the way home, Carlo said, “So it’s ‘Fina’ and ‘Pirricù,’ now, is it?”

She ignored his remark. “Tomorrow we’re off at first light. I’ll ask Renata to pack us something for the journey. Make sure Largo is fed and watered-we’ll use the cart. Bring a good length of rope and blanket. Do you still have that small leather club Papa gave you? Bring it. We’ve got work to do. Might be dangerous. Shhh, not a word to anyone.”

“Dangerous? Are you kidding? Why don’t you get Colonna and one or two of his men to carry out your scheme?”

“When I told Colonna we were going to search for the scene of the crime, he seemed content to stay in his office and count Ugo’s coins.”

“You mean, you want all the glory of the capture.”

She opened her mouth.

“No, don’t answer; I don’t want to hear another fantasy. But I’ll tell you one thing: tonight I’m going to Gloria’s and I don’t care what you have planned for this evening or any other evening, for that matter. Count me out. I’ll meet you tomorrow with the cart and the rope and the club.” He kicked a stone and it skipped on the cobbles, echoed off the high walls of buildings. “And what’s more, I don’t want to hear any of your remarks.”

They crossed the piazza without speaking, passing old soldiers snoring on benches or sitting straight, some with the vagueness of wounded souls, others arguing with one another. The crone she had seen earlier had vanished. Serafina’s skirts crackled in the wind. Her palms were moist.

“So where are we going?” he asked.

“I recognized the flora stuck to Ugo’s shirt. We’re going to a copse of beech near the foot of Monte San Calogero. Your father and I used to picnic there before we were married, and I’d come home full of those same burrs and leaves.”