Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

Serafina raised her brows.

“Wouldn’t you? Brushed me away like a customer shaking off the last of me. All done, they say, before they leave.”

“But you can’t think you caused Gemma’s distance. She removed you because of some disturbance inside her head.”

“They all leave. Carmela, the same. She was a girl, here for a while, older than me. Knew the names of flowers. A miracle with the gardens. We’d talk after the men left, sometimes until morning. But one day she was gone, too. No goodbye, no nothing.” Rosalia’s eyes began to crowd. “One day, one day, I’ll show them all. They’ll be sorry.”

Serafina took deep breaths. Walking over to the girl, she had the sensation of falling. She stroked Rosalia’s cheek, took her in her arms. While she sobbed, the candlelight played tricks. For an instant, Serafina held her child, Carmela, but she shoved back the memory, punched it down deep until it disappeared.

After Rosalia left, Serafina heard footsteps.

The door flew open and Rosa stood before her, fists on hips. “Fina. You know nothing about this business. Guests arrive and you dawdle.”

“Get in here, you old tart.” As she yanked Rosa inside, Serafina glanced down the hall at a long line of tittering women. How many beds does Rosa keep? She must count coins all day long and Don Tigro doesn’t want a larger cut of the take?

She slammed the door shut and stuck her face close to Rosa’s. “Do you want me to solve these murders or not? Should I go home now and leave you to your work, a knife waiting for you around the corner? Think of how it feels to have your forehead gouged with that sign of whatever it is.”

Serafina wagged her finger back and forth, close to Rosa’s nose. “We hunt for a killer who has the cunning of a madman. And he has a method and a pattern and is intent on one thing only-eliminating you and all your prostitutes and the business you think I know so little about.” She pointed to the door. “Now. You go into that parlor and you tease and prime your customers, but I will interview all of your prostitutes and the cook and laundress and anyone else I need to interview, including the archbishop and the prefect and the king if I have to. And I’ll take as much time as I want. And I might decide to come back tomorrow morning at first light and interview them all over again.”

“Are you finished?”

Serafina stood with her arms folded, one leg extended, foot tapping, cheeks burning.

Rosa wagged her finger back and forth. “Tart I may be. Proud of it. But old? Never! What’s more, the king doesn’t come here.”

When the madam opened the door to leave, Serafina saw a straight line of silent women waiting to be interviewed.

Lola glided into the room. Sapphires sparkled on her fingers. And pearls, she dripped pearls. They wound around her neck in long ropes, dangled from her ears, reflected opalescent light from tiered bracelets. Her gown of watered silk was cut low in the front with a lace surround, pleated in the French manner. Over her bodice she wore a fitted mauve jacket of boiled wool, a feathered boa draped around her shoulders. Her golden hair was trussed with tortoise combs, around which curls were carefully coiled. Wedged into her cleavage was an ivory cigarette holder.

Was this the same woman she met last week?

She sat. “Rosa told me you wanted to see me.” Her voice was expensive. She reached for her cigarettes, stuck one into the holder, and swung a leg over the arm of the chair, revealing a taffeta underskirt, lace petticoats, and black crocheted stockings. On her feet were satin shoes.

“My first customer is in the parlor now. Impatient.” Lola blew smoke from rouged lips. “A dignitary.” Inhaled. Exhaled. “Can’t spare much time, but I want to help.” The propped-up leg arced back and forth.

“I don’t care if he’s the king of Savoy. He’ll have to wait.”

She slid her leg off the arm and crossed it at the knee. As she rearranged herself, Lola’s eyes roamed over Serafina’s shape.

Serafina had a set of questions she asked each prostitute: did you know Gemma? Nelli? Bella? If yes, for how long? Who were her friends? Did she confide in you? When was the last time you saw her? Did you notice anything strange or new, a change shortly before she died? A new customer?

While the prostitute answered, she made notes of her facial expression, choice of words, accent, gestures, what she said, what she didn’t say, how she walked, the cut of her gown, the color and style of her hair, her scent, her jewels.

Lola was no exception. She answered with a shrug of one shoulder or a slight shake of her head. Amused by the spectacle, Serafina kept up her battery of questions long enough to study this new side of Lola. When she’d taken her measure, Serafina asked, “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

Lola’s mask dropped. “Forgive me. I’m about to work, you see. It’s a pose I use. If you’d ever done what we do, you’d understand. I want to help you find this killer. I doubt you’ll catch him. He’s clever. But I owe it to them, to my friends, to the women who died, especially to Bella. She taught me, and I am indebted to her, and to La Signura.”

“Taught you what? Rosa told me you were the teacher here.”

“Bella taught me costume and artifice-the skills necessary in my line of… “ She stopped.

Serafina waited for her to continue.

“The skills each prostitute must have in order to be…captivating.”

Serafina nodded.

“But I’m here to answer all of your questions, and I think I may have information of interest.”

“That would be?” Serafina arched one brow, her pencil poised.

The prostitute considered her cigarette. Then she leaned over the desk and crushed it with a ferocity that surprised Serafina. Small bits of paper and tobacco lay in and out of the ashtray.

“The evening before she died, Nelli said she was going to meet a man outside of town who would change her life.”

“Did she name this mysterious man or say where she would meet him?”

Lola shook her head. She nestled the cigarette holder back into its place, crossed her legs again, and said, “I assumed that if she’d go with this mysterious stranger, we’d never see her again.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“No. We used to be friends, Nelli and I, until she stopped confiding in me. She’d grown secretive before she died. I guess I wasn’t good enough for her.” She looked down.

“When did you first notice the change?”

“I think some of it was good,” she said, waving her boa and licking her lips.

“Answer the question.”

“Can’t remember.”

“Some of what was good?” Serafina asked.

Lola shrugged. “You know, the…”

“The what? Don’t waste my time.”

She faced Serafina. “The separation was good, especially for her. She used to follow me everywhere, except of course when I was with a client. It became too much for me. Rosa asked me to look after her when she came to the house, and truth to tell, at first she needed me. I taught her everything. She became adept at our profession.”

“Adept?”

Lola stopped talking. She reached into her fringed bag, pulled out a pot of rouge and applied color to her lips, pressing them together before she continued. It seemed to Serafina that this version of Lola, the working Lola, did not expend more energy than was necessary. Ever. Serafina guessed that trains ran or not, according to Lola’s schedule; customers were satisfied or not, according to Lola’s mood. But no matter what, they paid for the privilege of being with her for what, fifteen minutes? And considered themselves lucky.