Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

“He’s Bella’s uncle. Might have gained from her death.”

The madam was alert. “How?”

“She was the last living child of the oldest son, no?”

Rosa’s eyes widened.

“We must visit Nittù Baldassare again. I’ve got questions,” Serafina said.

• • •

Rosa reached out, held Serafina’s hand. “You miss Giorgio, I know. But this nasty business, good for your brain.”

“How do you know what’s good for my brain?” Serafina wiped her eyes. “As soon as I’ve finished talking to everyone here, I want to ask Baldassare some questions. Both brothers. Perhaps we can see the black swan as well.”

“As long as we return by six o’clock.”

“We’ll leave early, take the train to Bagheria, then a cab to Palermo. More reliable than the roads. Renata can come with us and shop in La Vucciria while we talk to Bella’s father. Bring Tessa. Has she ever seen Palermo?”

“Too young.”

“You need to show Tessa the world. Bring her. Renata will mind her while we do our business. Meet us at the station at seven.”

“Seven? Too Early.” Rosa stared into the flame. “Still, a trip to Palermo would be good for her.”

“Settled.”

“Now I want to speak to your women, Scarpo and his men, the cook, the laundress, the maids.”

Rosa shook her head, “No time.”

“I’ll use your office. I might have to return, but I’d like to start this evening.”

“Colonna’s already talked to everyone.”

“And was he as thorough with his interviews as he was when he searched the rooms?”

Rosa ran one painted fingernail on the edge of her holy ledger. “If you must, but-”

Serafina said, “Organize it. I might be a wizard but I’ve yet to learn the trick of making handcuffed villains appear, presto, out of nothing. Oh, we’ll find the killer, all right, but it will take our time and our brains and all our might.”

Sullen creatures with hooded eyes, the first few women she interviewed entered the room one at a time, bathed but not yet dressed for the evening. Like parrots, each one said the same thing. No, the prostitutes had no trouble with their customers. No, they’d seen no one suspicious, not around here, not in the straw market, not in the piazza. And the maids barely remembered Gemma, Nelli or Bella. At the time of the prostitutes’ deaths, they saw, heard, felt nothing unusual. Serafina was beginning to despair when Scarpo entered.

He looked at her. “Cold in here.”

As he carried wood over to the hearth, his hobnailed boots shook the furniture. He struts around like King Bumma in a pair of braces. Serafina watched the muscles of his upper arm pump while he stoked the embers and added another log to the grate. If Rosa were out of the way, would he gain or lose? Mentally she added him to her list-the brown cloak, the limping man, Falco, Scarpo.

She asked him if he had time for a few questions.

He nodded and sat in the chair she’d pulled up in front of the desk. Displaced, the air rippled the flame in Rosa’s lamp. Serafina heard the new log crack as it fed the fire.

“What can you tell me about the women who died?”

“Meaning what? I’m a busy man. My son, he helps when he’s not in school but look here, look there.” He made large circular gestures. “A lot for me, this house. Manage the gardeners, take close looks at the guards, and they’re a sorry lot, the guards. Work all the time. Let me think.” He picked at a spot on one suspender, bowed his head, and squirmed to the edge of the chair.

Silence.

“The first one to die, Gemma. In August. I remember her funeral,” Serafina said. “Can you tell me about her?”

Again he did not reply.

A mysterious man, this Scarpo. He played the strong man, yet, like a child hiding in the corner, he longed for discovery. She spoke again, and this time her voice softened the room. “I think I met your son last week. Handsome boy. He looks just like you, but with hair. He helped Beppe with our trap and must have a way with mules because Largo seemed unusually calm on the way home.”

He gave her a down-from-under look. His smile was slow to spread. “Arcangelo, sixteen next month.” He dug in his pocket, fished out a dirty yellow bandanna. “The sudden heat you know,” he said, wiping his forehead. He took small swipes at his eyes. “The wife, she’s been gone three years.” He stared at the floor. “Good in the morning, baking bread for Rosa. Come home for dinner, the table is bare. She, the wife, curled up on the floor, dead. From the sudden sickness.” His body sagged. “Only me and him now. Works like a man and La Signura knows it. Arcangelo, the same age I was when I started helping my father here.”

“So you know this house,” she said.

“All of it.” He looked at her, this time in control of his eyes.

“That’s why I need to talk to you. If something were strange, you’d know.”

“Yes, I know when one of my men, he doesn’t pull his load. I know when Don Tigro’s men trample one blade of grass.”

“That’s what they’re saying in town.”

“What?”

“That Don Tigro is behind the killing because he wants Rosa’s business.” Her eyes watched his face for change of expression.

He shook his head. “Never. We pay him every month, and I take extra care of his men.” He tapped the side of his nose with a callused finger, squared his shoulders, and said, “Don’t tell La Signura about the extra. Besides, against their honor, the don’s men, to kill a woman for nothing. Kill Gemma, Nelli, Bella? Why would they? Not like the strega who owned a store some years ago and refused to pay. You know the one I mean.”

“The one who sold fruit and vegetables in town? Her daughter was shot, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, the daughter shot, they say, by his men, yes, after she was used, you know how. But the old woman, nasty of mouth, she didn’t pay. We knew it, too. La Signura, she pays Don Tigro’s men. I see to it.”

“Thank you for your help.” She meant it as a dismissal.

He stared at the patterns on the rug. “One thing I notice, but probably nothing.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I need to find the words,” he said.

“Take your time. They’ll come.”

“Well, something in the air. More sound. Yes, and more movement during the day.” He twisted his mustache. “And the women dress earlier, more going out in the afternoon. Always more movement in summer, but this summer? — oh, the comings, the goings! Bella, she took trips to Palermo, stayed for a few days. Gemma, I think, in and out. Starting in June, maybe. The weather, hot, I know, because I remember seeing her leave while we were scything the field in back-Rosa likes it trimmed and a path cleared to the sea-and I can see them now, as I speak, going in and out, in and out.” He waved his arms back and forth. “Yes, and in August, just before La Signura finds Gemma’s body, Arcangelo stops in the middle of cutting. He tells me, ‘Got to drive Gemma to town. Then I come back.’ Yes, and he did, too, and we finished before evening.”

“Did he tell you where he went?”

He shook his head. “Gemma, all dressed up, he told me.”

“I’d like to talk to the rest of your men, then to Arcangelo. He saw something that may be important. Get them for me, please, Scarpo.”

• • •

Eight men stood before her, boots, aprons, bowed heads. One driver, two gardeners, five guards. Their squat fingers were hooked into their belts or held straw hats. No, they saw nothing, they told her. They spoke in a dialect she barely understood. Let’s face it: they barely spoke. She was sure that if they knew something, they were not about to tell her. She’d have to rely on Scarpo and Arcangelo.