Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

Rosa nodded, wiped her eyes.

The feather had a black oval design, an oculus, near its base. There was a smugness about it, as if it saw everything on the earth, in the heavens, under the sea. Like the eye of God.

“Where was it?” Rosa asked, then answered her own question. “Outside somewhere. What does it matter?” Water spilled from her lids.

Not dressed yet, the madam. Attired in her black negligee and robe, the one with the crimson silk tassels and matching slippers. She didn’t deserve to lose her business like that, one woman at a time.

Serafina rubbed the plush of the hat and held it to her nose. She smelled the sea. “Must have dropped when the killer carried the body up the stairs to the back stoop. I’m sure Colonna has his men combing the shore, scouring the coves for her reticule and other belongings. And whatever else it is that the police do to ferret out killers. They’ve been investigating these murders since when? Gemma was killed in July, no?”

Rosa nodded. “That’s why I asked you for your help yesterday.”

“Go to the commissioner. Ask for a full report. A customer, isn’t he? Surely he’ll-”

“Not your business, my customers.” Rosa frowned.

Sometimes the madam’s words masked her loving spirit. But she, Serafina, welcomed the barb as the harbinger of her friend’s return from the isle of grief. It was too soon, she knew, for the initial shock of Bella’s death to end. It took Serafina over a month of sitting in her room after her mother’s death for a restoration of her spirit to begin, and she knew she’d never get over losing Giorgio.

Rosa stared at the coins on her desk. “Sorry. Not myself today,” she said and began counting a stack of gold lire, whispering the numbers to herself like a nun at her beads.

Serafina hugged Rosa. “Have Gesuzza draw your bath. You’ll feel better after you’ve dressed. And I’ll go with you to visit the commissioner. Tomorrow good for you?”

She shook her head. “The wake’s tomorrow. The funeral, Wednesday. But Thursday?”

Serafina nodded.

“Will you come with me?”

“To the mourning, of course. But won’t it be here?”

“Think before you speak. How could I hold it here? In the parlor adjacent to the embalmer’s office. His parlor. Used rarely, but my only choice. Cannot have my girls forgotten.” She sniffed.

“I need to see if I can get away for the funeral.”

“Then you’ll help me find the murderer?” Rosa asked.

“I can’t promise that. When the babies start coming, I must deliver. And my children come first. But they’re in school today, everyone except Totò and today Renata takes him to the public gardens. If he only had children his age around us. Lonely, I think. But while I’m here, I might take a look in Bella’s room.”

She must not, must not become entangled in Rosa’s web. She must consider her children. Her temples pounded.

The madam’s eyes sparkled. “A wizard you are.”

“I’m a midwife, not a detective.”

“With the mind of a marvel,” Rosa said.

Serafina shook her head and was silent.

“When we were young, you solved a riddle faster than a tuna flips its tail. Who solved the mystery of Scarpo’s missing sheep?” Rosa asked.

“I did.” Her temples pounded.

Rosa peered up at her. “And who caught that flashy accountant skimming my profits?”

“Handsome crook, that one. I remember you saying, breathless, simpering, ‘Come into the office and feast your eyes, he looks like a Greek god.’ So struck were you, you hated to see him leave.”

“Kicked him out with relish, I did, the minute you discovered he was the one snatching my coins. I still don’t know how you did it-you’re so bad with numbers.”

“Opened my eyes. Opened my mind. Spoke with Scarpo, your gardeners, the other servants. Kept detailed notes. Asked my mother’s opinion. Had Beppe follow him and, of course, watched his clothes turn from shabby to silken, and the shadows lengthen on his face.”

“Too many words as usual, and your mother was dead at the time.” Rosa shut her ledger, scooped up the coins, and threw them in the box. “But you’re as good at birthing as your mama was, and if you can make a stubborn baby slip out of its womb, appear as if by magic, corner a wolf, uncover a thief, then you can do the same with the killer of my girls.”

“Make truth slip out from wailing lungs for all to hear?” She chewed her cheek. “Truth never slips out, not for me, not whole and breathing.”

Rosa pulled the cord. “If it’s clues you’re after, Bella spent time in the new conservatory. Loved it, she did.”

“Gloomy in there, I’d say. Just poking my head inside was enough to frizz my curls.”

Rosa smiled. It was the first real smile Serafina had seen on her friend’s face since the killings began.

Tessa appeared, ran to Rosa, and put her arms around her. She stopped, walked over to Serafina who hugged the child, felt the blades of her shoulders through the fabric of her dress.

“Grown, my girl, since you last saw her,” Rosa said.

For an instant the corners of Tessa’s mouth moved upward.

Five years ago Rosa sent for Serafina: ‘Bleeding, no baby, come at once.’ Serafina slapped the reins. Largo galloped. The trap careened around corners, nearly tipping onto Via Marsala. Too late. The mother died, a messy, sad business, but Serafina saved the infant. Health officials ordered Rosa to bring the baby to the orphanage. She refused. Money changed hands. Tessa remained with Rosa.

Serafina opened her bag. “I brought you some marzipan candies.” She handed them to Tessa, kissed her on both cheeks. Embracing her friend, she said, “We’ll concentrate on Bella’s life, the last one killed. She’s left more for us to discover. I’d like to spend some time alone in her room.”

“Tessa will show you the way, won’t you, my girl?”

Serafina smelled stale air and lye. Tessa led her to what looked like a ghostly presence under one of the windows. She removed the muslin draped over the object and saw a machine attached to an oak table.

“Bella used this to make our dresses,” Tessa said. Her hand stroked the arm of the machine. “’My magic machine,’ she called it. She showed me how to turn the wheel and make stitches.” Tessa opened the table’s middle drawer, pulled out a piece of dark cloth with crude white stitching. “See? Bella was going to teach me how to thread the needle, too, but she died.”

“My daughter, Giulia, has one of these. She tried to teach me once, but gave up. She said I haven’t the patience. Run along, now, Tessa. Tell Rosa I’ll return soon with the key.”

Serafina touched the wheel and shut her eyes, trying to feel Bella’s presence through the instrument that in life was her silent companion. Nothing happened. She roused herself: dawdled long enough. She’d head for home soon, but first she’d search the room carefully. She owed that much to her friend. She walked to the hearth swept clean of ashes and began to examine each object in the room, picking up a figurine on a nearby shelf, swiping the dust from a book cover.

She saw movement in the far corner, swung around, discovered that the deception was caused by her own reflection distorted in a spotted mirror.

Even though the prostitute had been dead only a day, a film of dust lay over the room, on the mirror’s gilt frame, on the chair below it, on the red silk bedcovers and pillowcases. Little wonder: someone had neglected to close a window. Serafina walked over and secured the shutters that banged against the house. She felt grit on the brocade draperies and on the windowsill, heard it grind underneath her boots.