Susan Anderson - Death of a Serpent

She looked down at the edge of land. Foam and wind seemed to stir up the beasts of the deep. Bracing herself against the sill she let the elements blow full-throated against her face. For a while she stood like this, listening to the incessant work of the sea. Why was a woman with such talent a prostitute? Doubtless money was a factor. Prostitutes, at least at Rosa’s, earned far more than seamstresses. Did she have enemies? Where did she go two nights ago on the evening of her death? Whom did she meet? Who were her regular customers? Her customers on the night she was killed? No doubt Rosa had a list of who was with whom and for how long, but, at least for now, the madam’s mouth was a sealed tomb.

Serafina closed the shutters, pulled down the sash, and turned away.

Two large cabinets stood on the far wall, both of them unlocked. One held Bella’s personal wardrobe, each item covered in muslin. Serafina leafed through these, one or two day dresses, several gowns, many a little too revealing. She smiled to herself, remembering how her children described her taste-what was the word Renata used? — ’ burgisi ,’ that was it. She held out a dress, examined the stitching. Although not a seamstress herself, Serafina knew expert finishing when she saw it. Again she pulled out a frock, looked at it. She examined another and another. She began to recognize Bella’s strong gift, a sense of costume, a unique flair. And then she felt Bella’s presence. The dead woman hung between her frocks, a specter not yet departed.

Below the garments in neat rows were pairs of shoes crafted in fine leather, polished, buffed, and arranged below the matching garment. Serafina made a mental note to visit the shoemaker. Bella may have been his customer, a frequent one, unless she had them fitted in Palermo. Perhaps he saw her recently. Merchants often knew a lot about their customers, when they were flush and when not, the company they kept.

In the second cabinet she found a shelf holding hats, a few of them wide-brimmed with feathers and pins, some straw hats, wool hats, no doubt all made by Bella, one or two like the brown velvet she found on the beach; shelves with bolts of fabric, watered silks in all shades, a few garish colors, wools in gabardine, bombazine, cloth in a variety of textures, some finely woven, others thick, nubby, boiled. The bottom shelf held a basket stuffed with spools of thread, needles, jars of beads. Next to it was a stack of Godey’s Lady’s Books . She knew this name: Godey’s . Giulia waited for it each month, disappointed when publication stopped during the war in America.

Serafina grabbed a few of the magazines and flipped through them, pausing at some of the colored plates.

She looked at her watch and felt pinched. How did she get herself into this? She wanted to continue helping Rosa, she must, but she must be home when her children returned from school for the noon meal and siesta.

Dust flew up her nose. She sneezed, stopped at a page with a creased corner, and peered through watery eyes at an article with drawings of Italian beadwork, embroidery, and church vestments. In a prostitute’s bedroom, of all places. What were those swirling things carved in wood, etched onto a chalice, or embroidered onto vestments? One snake-like creature wound itself around a holy book of some sort. Another drawing showed it slithering around a cross. She tried to read the words, but the article was written in English. No matter, she’d get Giulia or Vicenzu to translate.

She blew her nose and sat. Her ballooning skirt forced more dust into her face, and she coughed, wishing she had known Bella in life. She was someone who would rather have worked with her hands and mind than with her body. The woman could have been a designer of high fashion, a creator of unique lines, expensive gowns for the nobility. Did all of Rosa’s women have dreams like Bella’s? She decided to take another look around. She’d be home just in time if she left by 11:30. That gave her forty more minutes.

She opened the second cabinet again, feeling around in the dim light for something she may have missed. Wedged between the Godey’s and the back of the cabinet were letters neatly tied into two packets. She scooped them up, stuffed them into her pockets, and stopped. If she were Bella, where would she hide valuables?

She looked behind the mirror. No holes. No patching. She walked the floor looking for loose boards: none. Of course, the bed. Why didn’t she think of it before? After feeling underneath for a box or hole in the boards, she yanked off the linen, ran her hand over the top and sides of the mattress, but found nothing. Wait until Rosa saw the mess she was making of ‘our sweet Bella’s room.’

Serafina thought she’d just enough muscle to flip the mattress, but try as she might, it wouldn’t budge. Stuffed with the feathers of a thousand geese, oh Madonna. She prayed for more strength, stopped to catch her breath, felt sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. With an upward thrust, she lifted the mattress, steadied it while it teetered on end for a moment before thudding against her body. The heft of it almost knocked her down. She waited, took ragged breaths, felt drops of water running down the sides of her body and losing themselves in a mass of moistening corset. Again she flexed her arms. With one large grunt, she pushed it. When it fell over, it shook the mirror on the wall, dislodging more dust.

She mopped her face, sat down, and stared. Then she felt every centimeter of its surface until her fingers found a neat square of stitching. After fishing around in the sewing basket for a scissors, she cut the thread and pulled out one feathery book. It looked like an account ledger. She shoved it into her pocket, picked up the Godey’s with the snaky designs, closed the door.

All that work for such a meager result. Perhaps reading the letters would reveal more information, something about the woman and her dreams, her friends, her enemies.

“What did you find?”

“Not much. Any water?” she asked, wiping her face. Serafina dumped the letters, the Godey’s , and the account book on Rosa’s desk.

The madam stuffed the book down her front, reached for the bottle of mineral water, and poured a fresh glass. “You look worse than Scylla on a bad day. What have you been doing, luring young sailors to your lair?”

Serafina gulped the water, choked, and said, “That’s better. Dust in the mouth from Bella’s room.”

“That clown, Colonna, didn’t bother to search her room, and look what you discover in a few minutes. And the most important discovery of all,” she said, patting her chest. “This book belongs to Nittù.” Rosa winked.

The madam was in a jovial mood. Time to strike. “I need the names of the customers who visited Bella on Saturday. One of them might know something, might even be the killer. Anyone come to mind?” She watched Rosa’s face, now a wintry sunset.

“Bella had the evening off.”

“On a Saturday? Your busiest evening?”

“An exception to all the house rules, Bella. She asked for the weekend, left on Thursday. Probably went to Palermo to see the contessa. They were going to open a business of some sort.”

Serafina raised her brows.

“Not that kind of business. Venturing into the dressmaking trade, the two of them.”

Serafina opened the Godey’s and showed Rosa the plates of the writhing serpent, the strange vestments.

Rosa looked at them a moment and shrugged.

Serafina untied the bundles of letters and fanned them out. Sunlight and shadows from the sea undulated on the envelopes. They crinkled at her touch. “From her father,” Serafina said, indicating one. “But this address?” She tapped on the return address written in flowery script.