Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (26 page)

Chapter
33: A Studio in Aix

They’d ridden all over
Aix-en-Provence and the outskirts, too, looking for Elena. The Midi seemed more
like Sicily, but there was a transparency, a clarity and a buoyancy to the
light in the south of France that was mesmerizing, unlike anything she’d known
in Oltramari. Serafina breathed in and touched Loffredo’s hand. Although their
driver claimed to know the city, they found a newsstand and bought a plan, but
neither the man nor the map were much help. Roads were a tangled web, abruptly
stopping or making an about face, and street numbers were in no apparent order.
On their first attempt to locate Elena, they wound up where they’d started. It took
them the morning, but they persisted, and it was close to noon when they
arrived at the address. When Serafina alighted from the carriage, the sun beat
down and her curls stuck to her scalp as if they’d been burned into her flesh.
Loffredo asked the driver to wait for them.

They rang the bell and stood by
the side of the road in front of a high stone wall with a grill for a gate, the
interior half hidden by a large bougainvillea which draped itself over the
wall. Their shoes crunched gravel as they waited, too excited to stand still.
For once, Serafina’s toes were warm. She shielded her eyes from the blinding
rays of the sun. After the cool damp of Paris, she welcomed the warmth on her
back, marveling at the vibrancy of the colors, golds and violets, umbers and
oxides. The smell of lavender was almost overpowering. Even the shadows
suggested heat and light. For a moment she thought they’d been magically
transported into one of Cézanne’s paintings.

Two days ago, when they’d gotten
Elena’s address, they rushed home. Serafina wrote a note for Carmela, and Rosa
left orders for Gesuzza to enjoy herself. They packed small bags and caught a
cab for the Gare de Lyon where Rosa bought tickets to Coudoux, wiring ahead for
a carriage to Aix, one large enough to accommodate a party of six with luggage.

Serafina felt beads of water
creeping into her undergarments. Her corset bit into her flesh. She wished
she’d packed some lighter clothes.

Loffredo had removed his coat
and slung it over his shoulder. He stood unsmiling and rubbing his chin and
rattling the gate. Teo rang the bell again. Rosa swayed from side to side. Only
Tessa seemed excited, no doubt anticipating a tour of a real artist’s studio in
the Midi. Serafina hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed.

Finally a disheveled man with a
porcupine beard led them into a lush courtyard filled with flowers and
ornamental trees. It fronted a small stone villa with climbing vines. To one
side stood a large ochre outbuilding, presumably Elena’s studio.

They asked for the countess.

The man’s eyes moved to the
right. “Not here.” He was short and squat, his collar undone, his trousers
fading from black to purple, his face wary.

“She lives here?” Serafina
asked.

Before he could reply, Rosa
reached for his hand through the grill and shoved a wad of bills into it.
“We’re from her hometown. We’ve traveled thousands of kilometers, and we’d like
to say hello to her.”

The man removed his straw hat,
wiped a sleeve across his forehead and mumbled something. The gate creaked open
and he led them into a courtyard filled with sun and ornamental trees in great
enameled pots. The caked earth hummed with creatures. Somewhere a bird sang. In
the middle of the space grew a gnarled olive tree surrounded by tall grasses
and large golden flowers.

They watched as the man opened
the iron door of the studio, a rectangular structure, and followed him inside.

Serafina saw a ceiling of
skylights in the narrow space, breathed in air filled with a mix of wet gesso,
sawdust, and linseed oil. The entryway was crowded with easels and palettes,
stretchers, rolls of canvas and linen, brushes standing in pots. They walked
toward the front. When her eyes adjusted to the interior light, Serafina could
see a figure, a woman. She stood at an easel holding a blank canvas, her back
to them, an apron wrapped around her thick frame, her hair matted and cut
unevenly.

“Hello, Elena,” Loffredo said.

The woman swiveled around and
stood there, mute, her eyes round and unblinking. Slowly her cheeks filled with
color. She pointed to Loffredo.

Serafina’s heart beat wildly and
in spite of herself, she swayed as her vision swam, but Rosa held onto her arm,
steadying her.

The moment stretched. The light
seemed unreal, the whole scene, a fantasy. Elena lowered her arm. Her face
showed nothing, no regret, no surprise, no happiness, no sorrow. She was quite
mad, Serafina realized.

Tessa clapped a hand over her
mouth. Serafina saw Teo staring at the Elena, watched Arcangelo who was peering
up into the bright glassed ceiling, almost unaware of Elena, his face bathed in
blue from the heavens. She looked to Rosa who stood serene, and to Loffredo who
stood tall.

“Who told you where find me? It
must have been that drunken lout. Some lover he turned out to be, I’ll kill
him,” Elena snarled and turned to the servant. “And you? Why did you let them
in? Get out of here, all of you—go!”

Loffredo straightened. “Your
ruse is over.”

“How dare you disturb me? Can’t
you see I’m working? Have you no shame?”

“How did you pull it off?” Rosa
asked.

“All I want is to be left alone.
Leave me. Now.”

“Sophie didn’t help you?” Rosa
persisted. “And her sons? Ricci, for instance—he’s indebted to you.
You’ve broken your father’s heart. He’s spent a fortune looking for you.”

Elena’s smile was crooked. “He
doesn’t come himself to comfort me? How does he expect me to succeed?”

“In Paris, a woman of the
streets was murdered, mistakenly identified as Elena Loffredo,” Rosa said.

Elena’s smile faded. She said
nothing, continued to stare.

“Until last week, a stranger was
buried in your grave,” Loffredo said.

Elena reared her head to the
ceiling and bellowed.

Serafina’s heart seemed to stop.
She rubbed her forehead. “The police investigate your death at a great cost. At
a minimum, you owe their expenses, thousands of francs.”

Elena pointed to Serafina.
“You’ve wanted my husband for yourself. Well, now you have him.” She sneered at
Loffredo. “You disgust me. All of you disgust me. You won’t get away with
this.”

Serafina felt empty, but she said,
“With Loffredo, you’ll give your child a good home, respectability.”

“Why couldn’t you have simply
gone on vacation if you wanted to paint?” Rosa asked.

Elena’s eyes were huge. “And
have thousands of hungry Parisians on my doorstep wanting a week in the Midi?
You know nothing of a painter’s life, how hard we must toil without
interruption. We need months alone, no visitors. Now get out!”

“What perversity of spirit makes
you think you’ll get away with this?” Rosa asked. “The joke has gone on too
long. Give it up, Elena. Come back to Paris with us. You can cover the cost.
Laugh it off as a lark. Imagine the surprise on your friends’ faces when you
appear. They’ll talk of you forever. And when the sparkle of the joke has worn
off and you’ve had your child, you can always come back here and paint if
that’s what you want to do. You can do anything with your money. The world is
yours.”

“Think of the child you carry,”
Serafina said.

Elena’s lip curled. “Never. I’ll
never return.” Her eyes darted back and forth. It was as if a demon controlled
her mind.

They were silent.

“Sophie has claimed your
insurance,” Loffredo said. “You don’t think
l’Assicurazioni
Generali
won’t
investigate? They’ll charge you with fraud. You’ll go to prison.”

Elena was silent. She put down her
brush. Her hand moved to her side and dropped from view.

Arcangelo whispered in
Serafina’s ear.

She narrowed her gaze and
watched Elena’s side. “Take care, Loffredo,” Serafina said, loud enough for him
to hear.

Loffredo took a step toward
Elena. “You missed your latest appointment with Dr. Tarnier. He waits for you.
He’s the best doctor there is. He will help you and the child.”

“All I want to do is paint.”
Elena fumbled in her pocket.

There was no reasoning with her.
It was time to leave.

“I’d love to see your
paintings,” Tessa said.

Elena looked around. “Where are
they, my canvases? They’re gone! Who took them?

Serafina heard a door open and
felt movement behind them.

“Do not turn around. Keep
talking to her. Begin to back away,” a low voice whispered in back of them.

“You were the one who killed
her, weren’t you, Elena,” Serafina said.

She heard Rosa gasp, saw Elena’s
smugness.

Serafina spoke again. “You stole
your lover’s gun and killed the street walker. You put the chain of your
reticule around her neck. You placed the smoking pistol in her hand.”

“Near enough to the truth. She
was a nobody. She was sick.”

“And when I got too close to
discovering your secret, you shot me. You were in your apartment the night I
visited, weren’t you? The concierge said you’d just left and would return. He
tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen to him. Then you had a talk with Sophie.
You told her you’d changed your will. She’d inherit your fortune, all she
needed to do was assist and keep her mouth shut. Just a little help, that’s all
you needed. You told her what to do.”

Her laugh was like a thunder
clap. “Liar, you whore, stealing my husband. I may have killed the
streetwalker. I may have done. But she was a tramp. All I wanted to do was paint.
I found the slut. Easy enough. Yes, it was my idea—the pistols,
everything. Long after the deed was done, long after my burial, a mockery, I
heard you were in town. I knew you’d come snooping sooner or later. I needed
you dead. How dare you invade my apartment? Sophie knew good luck when it bit
her in the face, why didn’t you? You’d have Loffredo, but now you’re going to
lose him, you stupid whore. You think you have to save the world. Well this is
what you get for it!”

Serafina heard footsteps approach.
From the corner of her eye she saw the police moving into view, Valois’ doing.
Elena didn’t seem to notice them. It was time to leave and let the officials do
their work.

“Step back,” a low, steady voice
said.

“Get down. Loffredo, down!”
Serafina yelled.

Rosa held Tessa by the arm and
led her back. She motioned to Teo and Arcangelo to follow.

Loffredo moved in front of
Serafina.

Elena pointed her pistol at
Loffredo, blinded by her fury. “Some husband you are! Because of you I came to
Paris. You fatigue me, always did. I had one chance, one chance to paint like
the others. I knew when I saw the exhibit, those glorious works changing
forever the course of painting, the expression of feeling. You wouldn’t
understand. I had to do something. And Gaston, such a shame, another weak
excuse for a man. Yes, I stole his pistols. I killed the streetwalker,
worthless creature. If you think I’m going back to Paris with you ...” Elena
drew her pistol, aimed it at Loffredo.

“Put down the gun,” a voice
said.

“Get down!” Serafina said.
“Loffredo, down!”

“If you think I’ll succumb to
the wishes of my father, do what is expected ...You boor. Husband? Hah! And
you, you slut! I could kill you both with my bare hands. At last I’ve created
the life I’ve wanted. With child, yes, yes, and with no help from you!”

Elena steadied the gun on
Loffredo.

“Put down the pistol or we
fire!”

The police moved forward.

Serafina watched in horror. Her
fault, all her fault. She should have realized Elena was a madwoman and yet she
had persisted, put them all in danger.

“Put the gun down, Elena,” Rosa
called from the rear of the room.

“Yes, please show me what you
paint, your brush strokes, I’d like to learn from you. I came to Paris because
I love art and perhaps you can teach me,” Tessa said.

Elena paled, brushed hair from
her face, her eyes distraught.

The police were in sight now,
their firearms drawn.

“Let us help you, Elena,”
Serafina said.

But it was useless. The more
they pleaded with her, the more distraught Elena became. She was wild.

Loffredo stepped forward. “Give
me the gun, Elena. It’s not good for the child you carry.”

She aimed, the gun shaking in
her hands. “Don’t come near me.” Elena clenched her teeth. She was trembling,
her eyes other worldly.

Suddenly Elena became aware of
the police. She fired.

A blinding light. A blast. An
acrid stench.

Serafina watched as Loffredo
lifted in the air. Suspended for the briefest of seconds, he flew backward as
if he had wings.