Read Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Online
Authors: Susan Russo Anderson
She led them into a private room
with a table and mirror where several hats sat on a rack. A few more were
scattered about an overstuffed chair in the corner. The designer asked them to
excuse her and returned in a few minutes with several basic shapes, a pillbox,
a cloche, a beret, and a straw. In her apron she carried some loose flowers,
fruit, feathers, and veils. She dumped these on the table in front of Tessa and
began by having Tessa stand in front of a mirror while she looked at her
reflection, feeling the fabric of her dress, turning her around, and asking her
to sit.
Madame Josephine glanced at
Carmela. “You’ve been to our other stores, I see,” she said as she began
designing Tessa’s hat, her fingers like the wings of birds in flight, her head
cocked to one side.
“Pardon?”
“Your hat. Designed for you at
our store on the Rue de la Paix, no? Let me guess the designer, I’ve trained
them all, you know.”
“I brought this from home. I
made it myself.”
Josephine Joyeuse stopped,
straightened. “Lovely work.”
She continued creating Tessa’s
hat, placing and shaping the felt just so, rejecting it, picking up a deep
cadmium red pillbox instead, pinning, prodding, fussing with speed and
dexterity, a hatpin between her teeth. She stepped back to appraise the work,
adjusting the angle of the hat, her movements transforming the material,
shifting it slightly, pulling it backward, forward, refitting the hat on the
head, trying a different veil until she was satisfied. Her touch reminded
Carmela of how the voice can inflect words to change their meaning.
“Stand please,” she said to
Tessa.
Tessa looked in the mirror and
widened her eyes.
Madame Josephine straightened
her apron. “Now step back slightly from the mirror.”
Tessa did, and once again saw a
change.
“You see how your whole outfit
‘turns’ when you step back, the same way a painting does. That’s how a hat
transforms. That’s how you know it works for you.”
* * *
On the way home, they stopped in
front of Busacca’s store on the Rue de Verneuil and watched as David filled the
display with the last of four new hats taken from the back. He’d rolled up his
sleeves and wore a black apron. His face was flushed.
The front of the store was
spotless. On entering, Tessa breathed the scent of soap and polish.
“No customers yet. It will take
a while, but there will be customers, I promise you,” he said, his eyes alive
as he glanced at Tessa. “Don’t look in the back, not yet, except I’ve made a
stab at the top of my desk.”
They said goodbye, praising his
work and promising to return before they left Paris.
He gave Tessa his card.
“Don’t I feel like a cipher,”
Carmela said. She smiled at Tessa. “Did you see the way he looked at your hat?
You must wear them all the time.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “In
Paris, yes. But at home ... Just wouldn’t do. How I love this city.” Tessa’s
cheeks glowed.
Serafina listened to what
Carmela and Tessa had to say about Sophie’s sons and their stores. It confirmed
Serafina’s suspicions. “It doesn’t surprise me,” was her only comment. She was
interested in the difference between David and Ricci.
Serafina had a good idea of who
killed the woman in the Rue Cassette and who attacked her in Elena’s apartment,
but as she waited for Valois to confer with Dr. Tarnier, she felt the press of
time. She decided to act before it was too late, so she wired Busacca.
“Facts in case deliberately
confusing. Possible your daughter lives. Letter follows.”
In her letter to Busacca, she
brought him up to date on what she’d learned so far—the discrepancy in
appearance and class between the dead woman and a countess, the quick burial of
the body, the attack in Elena’s apartment, the similarity of the two bullets
discovered in the victim’s mouth and in her own shoulder. She detailed the
state of Elena’s health before her “demise” and her appointments with the chief
surgeon at
La Maternité
. She mentioned the release of
Loffredo who had wrongfully been charged with Elena’s murder. And lastly, while
a study of his business was not part of her commission, she believed the
distress of his stores in Paris was indirectly related to his daughter’s
disappearance. At the very least, Busacca et Fils needed his attention or his
business would be left behind other milliners.
Once more she and Rosa combed
Elena’s apartment, looking for an address, any clue however obscure as to her
whereabouts. They didn’t find a scrap. There was nothing for it but to
wait—for inspiration, for truth, for definitive evidence from Tarnier. It
was after all spring, the season of hope.
They’d been in Paris a week, and
for the last two days talked of nothing but the weather and the food and the
sights. Not a bad life, but the pieces had come together in her head and she
wanted to get on with the case. The air was warming and Serafina’s spirit was
content, the passionate longing for Loffredo dampened for the moment, perhaps
because of necessity. It was enough now to be close to him. Truth to tell, she
felt empty without him at her side.
So for a few days they enjoyed
themselves and forgot about Elena and Sophie and Valois. They argued about the
theater, fashion, cuisine, politics. They argued about what made Paris
Paris
.
They never mentioned the future of Sicily. She went with Loffredo and Rosa to
see Sarah Bernhardt in
Phèdre
. When Serafina said she didn’t see anything divine about
The Divine Sarah, the madam had the effrontery to say, “Too much like you.”
They sat in the Jardin des Plantes, in the Tuileries, in the Parc Monceau and
in her favorite, the Jardin du Luxembourg. They toured the Gobelins, took a
cruise on the Seine. They were happy. Loffredo took them to the studio of
Sébastien Érard in the Chateau de La Muette and they marveled at the collection
of grand pianos. Perhaps Maria would play one someday.
It was late afternoon when
Valois knocked on Serafina’s door. She sent Teo and Arcangelo to fetch
Loffredo. They talked of this and that, waiting for everyone to gather.
Valois cleared his throat. “This
morning I talked with Dr. Tarnier who said that Elena Loffredo, expecting a
child, was indeed under his care. Her last appointment was April 16 at two in
the afternoon. Her next appointment was scheduled for tomorrow at nine in the
morning.”
There was a hush.
“Why did I doubt you?” Rosa
asked.
“So that means either the woman
who was murdered in the early morning hours of April 16 was incorrectly
identified as Elena Loffredo, or Dr. Tarnier’s patient claiming to be Elena
Loffredo is lying,” Serafina said. “You asked to see her signature, of course.”
Valois nodded. “We checked the
signature with the Banque de France where she has an account. There can be no
doubt: she signed Tarnier’s form.”
“Any account activity?”
Arcangelo asked.
Valois blew air out of his mouth
the way Frenchmen do. “Not since a thousand franc withdrawal on April 15.”
Serafina shot a swift glance at
Rosa.
“What’s the address she gave
Tarnier?” Serafina asked.
“Her address on the Rue de
Passy. Different from the one on her passport,” Valois said.
“Does she have future
appointments?”
“Twice a month until November.”
Serafina composed an
advertisement for the prominent daily newspapers—
Le Figaro
,
Le Gaulois
,
Le Petit Journa
l
, La Presse
,
Le Siècle
,
Le Temps
,
et L’Univers
. It offered a reward for
information that led to the present location of Elena Loffredo née Busacca.
While Serafina was convinced that one or two of Elena’s closest friends knew
where she was hiding, pinning them down had proven impossible.
At the risk of disturbing Dr.
Tarnier again, Loffredo wished to speak with him. He returned within the hour.
“There can be no doubt. Elena
Loffredo is with child and alive, at least she was alive on the afternoon of
the 16
th
,” he said. “The signature is unmistakably hers. She signed
documents on April 9 and on April 16.”
“And did you find out why she
chose to see a doctor instead of a midwife?” Rosa asked.
Loffredo looked at his feet.
“I’d rather not say.”
They were silent and Rosa rang
for café and sweets.
Chapter
25: A Visit with Sophie de Masson
They sat in the parlor, Serafina
next to the fringed lamp, Loffredo closer to Valois, Rosa on his other side. An
overstuffed wing chair on the other side of the fringed lamp stood empty,
waiting for Sophie de Masson to arrive.
Serafina stared at a square of
sunlight on the slightly worn carpet beneath her feet and slid her eyes to
Loffredo who sat still and at peace. He must have felt her eyes on him for he
smiled, glancing quickly at Valois who cleared his throat. Serafina curled her
toes, warming them. Her boots creaked and Rosa shot her a look. The madam
folded her hands in her lap, her face inscrutable, her hat slightly forward and
angled to one side, the way Carmela had placed it on her head that morning.
As on their previous visit, the
butler entered and apologized for the delay, slicking the side of his pomaded
hair and glancing at Rosa. He was followed by a maid who poured tea from a
porcelain pot, offering them dainty tarts and chocolate bits arranged just so
in that stiff way of the French—some of them, Serafina corrected herself.
Steam rose from china cups, swirling in rays of sun. She occupied her mind with
the play of dark and light. While they ate their tarts, the others talked of
the weather. It was warm for April, Valois assured them. His remark was
followed by silence except for the jingle of spoons and the distant sounds of
the street. Serafina wiped her mouth with stark white linen.
“Jesse James was married Friday,
I read in
Le Figaro
,” Valois said, and put down his
cup, rattling it against the saucer.
“Who?” Rosa asked.
“A North American. He robs
trains and banks,” Valois said. “Notorious but well-loved by the people.”
“Many in our town leave for the
new world, and I fear for them,” Loffredo said.
Serafina wished she spoke French
as well as he. “I think it’s a mistake, their going to the Americas, the North,
especially—such a lawless land.”
“Not all,” Valois said. “New
York is safe, and one can make a good living there. It is the west that is full
of bandits, like your country. The James gang, for instance. But now the
Pinkerton Agency is after them. They learned detecting from us, you know.” He
beamed.
“Everyone learned detecting from
you,” Serafina said. She smiled. And as for New York, she wasn’t about to
disabuse Valois of his misconception, but she knew otherwise. The immigrant
neighborhoods were ripe grounds for the picking, and men like the don were at
the ready.
“Mark me, they’ll find him.”
“No doubt. And we’ll get to the
bottom of this mystery,” Serafina said, looking at a tear in the wallpaper. Her
tea was untouched, her stomach doing somersaults. She suspected Sophie kept
them waiting on purpose, and her mind left the conversation about the bank
robber and the Americas, focusing instead on Elena and where she could be and
who was helping to hide her. Would Sophie reject their claims as preposterous
or be contrite and admit her folly in identifying the dead woman as her niece?
Was it a mistake on her part or willful obfuscation to identify that poor
prostitute as her niece, and if so, why?
The patch of sun had moved to
another spot in the carpet when Sophie entered the room, this time in black bombazine
and on the arm of her lady’s maid. Serafina and Rosa exchanged glances while
the men rose. Instead of greeting each one of her guests, she nodded around the
room while she moved her mouth from one side to the other as if chewing her
thoughts.
After the servants departed,
Valois began to speak. Serafina watched Sophie’s face for her reaction.
“New evidence has arisen
concerning the woman slain on the Rue Cassette,” the inspector said. “We think
she was a woman of the streets, not your niece. The proof is strong enough to
warrant exhumation of the body.”
Sophie let out an involuntary
shudder and moved in her seat, looking not at Valois or anyone else in the
room. Her right hand began to tremble and she quickly grabbed the arm of her
chair.
“This cannot be. My eyes fail
me, that is true. There is a hole in the center of my vision and it grows, but
with this loss, my other senses have been heightened. I know my niece. I
touched her face. It was Elena I identified in the morgue, and I stand by it.”
“How did you know it was she?”
Loffredo asked.
“I know my niece. I keep in
contact with her. Unlike you, I care for her. I give her the support of a
family who loves her, despite her unusual behavior. It was the shape of her
head, the side of her face, the color of hair, the scent she wore, that above
all, her perfume. I’d recognize it anywhere, even in that pathetic morgue.”
Loffredo squared his shoulders.
“Elena has a reaction to perfume. She doesn’t use it, never has.”
Flustered, Sophie lashed out at
him. “You’re a poor excuse for a husband. It was because you couldn’t fulfill
your duty that she traveled to Paris and sought the company of other men. And
when you decided, finally, that you wanted her home, when you could no longer
have the young women you so desire, you came to Paris to bring her back. And
when she wouldn’t return to that sordid country of yours, you killed her.”
Loffredo sat unmoving. He stared
at Sophie, his gaze unwavering. Serafina wanted to get up and slap her, and she
could have, too. She wanted to rip her elaborate coiffure to shreds, but
gathering strength from Loffredo’s reaction, she stirred once and stole a
glance at Rosa whose face was flushed as she looked down.
“Elena has a birthmark beneath
her right ear. Did you see it?”
Sophie turned to Valois. “Why do
you persist in this folly?”
The inspector was calm. “Because
we have proof that Elena Loffredo was alive some twelve hours after the woman
you identified as your niece was murdered in the Rue Cassette, and I suggest
you do not fight the order of exhumation. It will look like you have something
to hide.”
“You, sir, are not my attorney.”
She rang the bell.
“A valid point.” Valois ran a
hand down his lapel. “But I suggest you consult with him. Right now you have
four witnesses to your defamatory remarks. Persist, Madame, and I will take you
in for questioning.”
When the butler arrived,
Loffredo took his top hat and gloves from the servant.
Valois grabbed his
chapeau melon
. He nodded to Rosa and
Serafina. “For now we are finished.”