Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

“Bella went with you to town?”

“No, Bella was different, more like me and Carmela, only quieter. Not so bouncy. Getting on, Bella. Lots of talent, too. She kept to herself unless she was sewing for someone. Well, of course, you know, Bella made our clothes, the ones for special occasions. Bella was usually sewing for someone. Except for when she wasn’t.”

“Rosalia?”

“Hard to figure, but as I said, dim. Given over a little too much to tales and all. Miracles and the like. But one time when we were in town, all of us, like I said, one of the times Turi drove us, we piled in the carriage, a few of us on the rumble, we went to the sea near the cove. Carmela was still here. She and I, we took a walk on the shore and as we were coming back we saw Rosalia. Beating her fists on the pebbles, she was. In a state, the little minx, like a bleating lamb, her dress a shambles, her blonde hair all messed. Saw Eugenia bending over her, Lola looking out to sea, Prudenza off a ways, waving at us to hurry, the others with their arms crossed or letting the wind blow their skirts, ribbons flying, all of them laughing. Well, Carmela and I, we got there and I took one look at Rosalia and stooped close, don’t you know, and told her to pick herself up and stop the bawling.”

“What did she do?”

“Obeyed. Learned that if you talk to her serious and all, she’d stop her little girl acting.”

Serafina held up her hand. “Wait.” She flicked pages back and forth and her fingers flew as she wrote down the jumble of Gusti’s words.

“Does any of that make sense? Oh, I don’t know, how do you expect me to remember everything? Really, too busy I am, truly busy. Hard work, this. Pays well if you keep up a steady stream. In and out, that’s how I like them. But it’s hard work. Unending. No lolling about. I’ll write to Carmela tonight or tomorrow, if there’s time. And I have the most vigorous customers. Hard to take notice of the other girls when you work as steady as me.” She tightened the belt of her robe.

“Have you seen any strangers hanging about lately, I mean, from the time of their deaths?”

“Strangers? How would I know?” She heaved her chest, looked around the room.

“What about visitors? Any of the women have visitors? Gemma? Nelli? Bella?”

“Visitors? You mean, not customers?”

Serafina nodded.

She shook her head and picked at a fingernail. “Wait, now. Bella, she had a visitor. Not a customer, I can tell you.” Gusti turned around, and for a second or two stared at the blackness outside the window, as if she saw someone. A customer? Another prostitute? “Brrr, too cold tonight to talk.”

“Should I send for some caffè?”

Gusti hugged herself. “Not enough time. We’ll be done soon, won’t we?”

“You were saying, about Bella’s visitor?”

“An old woman called on Bella. Used to come once or twice a week. Funny creature, that’s how I remember her-not her mother.”

“How do you know?”

“Didn’t look at all like Bella. And from a different class. Carried herself like a snooty duchess or something. All bends and bumps and angles, that one. Hair tied up in an old rag, but her clothes were gorgeous and oh, la, the jewelry. Really. Usually had bundles of clothes with her, perhaps for Bella to mend? And one time I saw her all fitted out, almost didn’t recognize her. Dressed herself up she did. Had a gorgeous frock on, all fringes and beads and feathers. Flowing. And, oh, the furs. Quite the figure she had, too, for an old cow. All made up with rouge and white powder and all.”

“Strange company Bella kept,” Serafina said.

Gusti hunched forward. “Maybe Bella was her seamstress. Helped all of us with our sewing and, as I say, made a gown for Gemma. Made lots of frocks for Rosa, for Tessa, too. Rosa paid her well, but Rosa, you know, can afford it. Don’t mistake me, I love Rosa. Knows how to treat us. Leaves us alone. Knows how to put some of the bossy ones in place, I can tell you. But she favored some of the girls, too. I’m not one of them. Rosa wants us all to be close, like a family, and we’re not like that, no.” The prostitute looked down, whisked a bit of dust off her shoulder. “And I’ve got an honest mouth. If I don’t trust someone, I say so, and to her face. But talk like that, well, Rosa doesn’t want to hear.”

“I have a few more questions if you don’t mind. In particular there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. At Bella’s wake I saw you with a gentleman.”

Gioconda laughed. She was dressed in indigo damask, full skirts, gold stars embroidered on the bodice. A matching scarf draped her shoulders. “Which one?”

“Tall, light brown hair. Curly. Wore black of course, frock coat, cravat, armband.”

The redhead drew a blank.

“Struts a bit,” Serafina said.

“Falco?”

Serafina nodded. “How do you know him?”

“Same way everyone does.” Gioconda winked. “Bella’s uncle, at least that’s what Bella called him. Met him through her.”

“How?”

“In the parlor of course. I think he was with her father.”

“And you’ve known him for how long?”

“Oh, la, couple of years, I’d guess.”

“Your customer?”

“I’m not the only one. Helps himself.”

“Does he know all the women?”

“Just a few of us. The select, you might say. On his last visit, he was with a couple of the girls in the parlor, chatting and such, having a gay old time. Likes to be surrounded by what he calls ‘the choicest meats.’”

Serafina’s brows furrowed. Rosa didn’t bother to tell her about Eugenia. Now Falco. Rosa keeps secrets from herself.

After Gioconda left, Serafina sat alone in Rosa’s office. Laughter drifted in from the parlor, faint squeals from the floors above. No doubt Rosa would shoo her away, but until she did, Serafina had time to ponder what she’d learned. She pictured Carmela, wondered what she looked like. She must have changed in four years. But she forced Carmela out of her mind.

She’d gotten more information about the most important suspect-the monk, she called him-first, from Scarpo, strengthened by Arcangelo who saw someone with Gemma on the day she disappeared, similar to Scarpo’s description of the monk-like creature. Could he be the same monk she’d seen begging in the piazza? She reminded herself that Sicily was full of monks.

Another suspect had emerged: Eugenia, who, Gusti told her, took personal belongings from the other women. Nelli’s fear of being robbed made sense in light of the buxom prostitute’s revelation. Just like the madam not to tell her about trouble in her house.

Three strands wove in and out of her mind. The first was a sense of foreboding. Everyone in the house carried the burden of fear, Rosa, Scarpo and his men, the prostitutes, Formusa, even that actress, Lola, poor woman. The whole lot of them squirmed in their seats, cast a backward glance, as if death lurked around the next corner, ready to surprise. The second thread: a sense of upheaval and change. What was once a house of laughter and friendship had become a hospice of silence and mistrust. And third, Serafina’s certainty that some or all of the prostitutes, and of course Rosa, that grande dame of secrecy, hid information from her, whether wittingly or not.

She needed to find this killer before he struck again. There were moments this evening when she felt sure she glimpsed his presence-in the glint of Scarpo’s eyes, in the wisps of Rosalia’s hair, in the shadows on Lola’s face. But now she saw these as illusory. She felt the distance she must travel.

Too many parts of the tapestry needed mending before the real picture could emerge. For he was a wily killer, this one, eluding detection by donning masks, taking on shapes that flipped faster than a tuna’s tail. And yet there must be something, some truth that held the key, a clue that, for now, lay beyond her ken. Who or what caused the change in Rosa’s house? How could she peel away the layers of secrets? She forgot her surroundings, cocked her head to one side and swirled the liquid in her glass.