Read Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Online
Authors: Susan Russo Anderson
Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery)
Short Blurb:
Paris,
1874. When the body of a countess is found in the Rue Cassette, her husband,
Loffredo, also Serafina’s lover, is charged with her murder and imprisoned.
Serafina investigates the brutal death and attempts to convince her counterpart
at
La Sûreté Nationale
of Loffredo’s innocence. As the
plot twists, Serafina and her friends find themselves in the dangerous grip of
a mind gone feral.
Synopsis
Paris,
April 15, 1874. A group of painters hang their works in a studio on the
Boulevard des Capucines. Elena, a Sicilian countess estranged from her husband
and living in Paris for the past seven years, attends the opening with her
latest flame. She counts many of these artists as her friends, some as her
former lovers. As she views their works, she is in awe of their explosive
color, their exciting lines, the quality of the light. “They will change how the
world sees,” a friend tells her, and she longs to paint with their talent.
Three
hours later, Elena’s body is found in the Rue Cassette, fatally shot in the
left temple. Her husband, Loffredo, also Serafina’s lover, is charged with her
murder and awaits trial in a Paris prison.
Serafina
is commissioned to investigate the countess’s death. The sleuth and her
entourage travel to Paris where they stay at the luxurious Hôtel du Louvre then
located on the Place du Palais Royal. They dine at the finest restaurants and
bistros including Maison Dorée, La Tour d’Argent, Le Procope, and Bofinger.
Berthe Morisot, Victorine Meurent, Paul Cézanne, Auguste Renoir, Camille
Pissarro, Édouard Manet, Stéphane Mallarmé, Camille Saint-Saëns, and other
notables make cameo appearances as Serafina interviews friends of the countess.
At the same time she discovers bits and pieces of the truth concerning the dead
woman and attempts to convince Inspector Alphonse Valois, her counterpart at
La Sûreté Nationale
, of Loffredo’s innocence. As
the plot twists and turns, Serafina and her friends find themselves in the
dangerous grip of a mind gone feral.
Chapter 6: The Journey to Paris
Chapter 9: The Prefect of Paris
Chapter 12: What Carmela Discovers
Chapter 13: A Visit to the Sixth Arrondissement
Chapter 15: A Visit to Elena’s Apartment
Chapter 16: The Lawyer Visits Loffredo
Chapter 17:
L’Hôpital
del la Charité
Chapter 18: A Visit from Valois
Chapter 22:
Françoise and Alphonse
Chapter 25: A Visit with
Sophie de Masson
Chapter 28: A Small Shop Near
the Seine
Chapter 29: An Evening with
Les Mardistes
Chapter 34:
Praying to the Virgin
Chapter 35: Wind, Light, Water
Chapter 39:
Le Livre de Pâtisserie
Chapter 40:
Hiding from the Truth
Chapter 41:
Valois and Serafina
Chapter 44:
Prison Saint-Lazare
Paris, April 15, 1874
Elena breathed in, dazzled by the paintings. As she gazed at
them, the Siege and the Commune seemed distant memories. France had arisen from
its ashes, shimmering in a glorious rebirth, the brightness of the works
blinding her.
Her
friends had labored so hard and for so many years, shunned by the Salon and
their stuffy convention. God knew many of the critics had derided them. Yet the
artists persisted.
Turning
slowly, she regarded one work, then another and another. Paintings by Degas,
Pissarro, Cézanne, Monet, Boudin, Renoir, Morisot, and a host of others she did
not know and who did not know her, not yet.
The
studio was stuffy tonight with all of Paris here.
“Pardon,
Madame. Sorry, I did not see your train.”
“Quite
all right,” Elena muttered, fanning herself.
“You
too? I can’t breathe,” Étienne said. He ran a finger inside his collar and
patted his cravat. “Such hideous dabbling.” He pointed to a painting of a
ballerina in blue tulle.
Elena
lifted her train, draping the fabric over her arm. “And do keep your voice down
or I’ll leave.”
She
gestured toward the four walls. “The paintings express a feeling, the grasp of
a moment,” she said. “Not that you’d ever understand.”
She
watched him squint at a canvas and shake his head. Again she tried to explain
the artist’s vision, but he’d made up his mind not to like them. He was so
tedious. His taste was so difficult, so bourgeois, his eyes blind to anything
new.
“See
how she holds her linen? She’s just finished her dance. Her hair is unkempt,
still wet in spots from exertion, her skirt filled with light and movement and
air. She turns her head toward us, and in that sweet gesture, Renoir has
captured the secret of being a child.”
“Too
old to be a child, and her hair’s not coiffed. Is it hair?”
“And
the legs, are they legs?” a man asked bustling toward them. He had a pinched
face and was short. “Cottony-looking if you ask me.” He stood close to the
canvas and lifted his nose.
Étienne
inclined his head and smiled at the man. “My point exactly.”
“You
don’t understand,” Elena said, turning to the newcomer.
Another
man approached. “Allow me to explain,” he said. He pulled at his red goatee.
“Oh,
Pierre, your paintings are exquisite, such distinctive brush work.
Congratulations. But do I know the child?”
“The
portrait of a girl, thirteen or perhaps fourteen, and from a prominent family.
The painting is an impression of a fleeting moment, like all the works here.”
His hand encompassed the room.
He was
interrupted by a woman with a large bosom wearing a mauve dress. She peered
into her lorgnette. “Such a darling child.”
“Darling?”
Renoir asked and turned away.
Elena
took Renoir’s arm and whispered, “Take the praise, forget the rest.”
Étienne
strode away, wiping the shoulders of his frock coat. “I haven’t time for these
sketches.”
From
the moment they entered the room, she’d seen Étienne’s discomfort as he scanned
the oils and pastels. It was obvious he didn’t understand them. The chatter
stopped and she felt a hundred eyes on them as they made their way through the
crowd. His clothes ill-suited the event and he hadn’t known what to say. He’d
avoided her glances. It was a mistake, their coming. Especially since several
of her ex-lovers were there, some of them boorish in their celebration. Artists
and poets, after all, and in Paris—what did he expect?
Elena
shook her head. Impossible. She’d show him, she’d show them all. Perhaps next
year she’d have a canvas ready to hang if she put her mind to it, and finally
she’d have the recognition she deserved. But she must steal away from the
crowd. She must prepare—that’s what one of her friends told her—and
then she’d be a part of the grand sweep of history, and in Paris where she
belonged. Her heart swelled. She shut her eyes, drunk with the heady mix of
linseed oil, varnish, and dreams.
“And
what’s this?” Étienne threw his hand toward an autumn scene. “Not at all like
Bougival. Nothing is drawn properly. Trees don’t look like that—sticks
with fur on them? And I’ve never seen that color in the leaves before.”
“But
the light, it’s the blast of light at sunset. Don’t you see? Sisley has painted
a moment.”
“No, I
don’t see,” Étienne said. “No wonder these painters were rejected. Their works
are not worthy of the Salon.”
With
that, Elena spun around. Her head down, she marched out of the room, Étienne
smoothing his stuffed shirt and tripping to keep up with her. At the door she
told Berthe Morisot she’d return soon.
In the
carriage ride to his home, she listened to the wheels on the cobbles and her
mind darted here and there, capturing nothing, coming to rest on their affair.
In time perhaps she’d cure Étienne of himself. If they remained lovers, that
is. But she’d wanted to be seen with him tonight of all nights, a special
night. She had not wanted their affair to be kept a secret any longer. His eyes
tonight were ragged—how they revealed the confusion in his soul. She knew
she’d remember them long after she’d cooled toward him. Well, she would just
have to make it up to him. She knew how to do that.
She was
awakened from her reverie by a black-suited servant who opened the door.
Étienne
led her into the parlor. “Wait for me here,” he said. “I must change before we
go.”
“You’re
too cautious.” She kissed him hard, grinding into him. “Where’s your butler?
Let’s couple in front of him. Give him something delicious to think about.”
That
would melt his reserve. She knew how to handle famous men, and he was one of
them, admired, lionized for his learning. He had his own following, the hangers
on, the simple creatures. But this was Paris, where such things mattered, and
he excited her, so different from the others. She must be brazen.
When he
returned she said, “In my belly, a seed of our love. I am two.” She kissed him
again. His misgivings seemed to melt. She knew they would. Each time she
thought of ending their liaison, the strength of his passion quelled her
doubts. Besides, she needed him tonight. No, they must remain together, at
least until the child is born. By then, she had no doubt her ardor would cool.
It had drifted already. There was too much life to taste, and she could not
stop for longer than the spirit lingered. What remained would be a husk, the
dregs of life. Few people understood that, but Elena was one of the lucky ones.