Sarah glanced down the hall. Four doors opened onto it.
She knew one was Valentina’s bedroom, where Maria had gone. The fourth door stood open. If Malloy were here, he’d investigate to see who else slept on the same floor where Nainsi had died, so Sarah walked down to take a look. This room was furnished as a parlor. The furniture here was older and looked comfortable and well used. A pile of mending lay in a basket near one of the overstuffed chairs and a stack of ladies’ magazines sat on a table. Over the fireplace hung a picture of a beautiful sunlit landscape. Sarah imagined it was a picture of Italy. If so, she could understand why the Italians spoke so lovingly of their homeland. On the opposite wall, where the sunlight wouldn’t hit it directly, hung an elaborately framed photograph of a man. His unsmiling face looked familiar, and when Sarah looked more closely, she realized he bore a family resemblance to Ugo Ruocco.
He was much younger, of course, but the photograph was obviously old. This must be Patrizia’s husband, Ugo’s brother.
Everyone knew the story of how Patrizia and her children had come to America and she had started the restaurant.
What had become of her husband? Had he died in Italy and Ugo brought the family over here to take care of them? Or had he died during the crossing? Many immigrants did, she knew.
Sarah picked up one of the magazines and sat down in the chair closest to the window to wait for the baby to wake up. She’d read most of a second magazine when she heard someone coming up the inside stairs. Thinking it might be Lorenzo, she went out to meet him so he wouldn’t accidentally wake Maria or the baby. Instead she encountered Patrizia Ruocco. She looked almost as weary as Maria had.
The older woman started in surprise. “Mrs. Brandt,” she said, not pleased to see her. “Why are you here?”
“Lorenzo came for me. Maria thought the baby was sick.”
Patrizia’s expression hardened, and she glanced around.
“Where are they?”
“I sent Lorenzo for some goat’s milk. I think it might agree with the baby more than cow’s milk.”
Her lips flattened into a thin line. “Maria?”
“I . . . I made her lie down for a while. She was exhausted,” Sarah added quickly, remembering Maria’s fear that Mrs. Ruocco wouldn’t approve.
“She want to be a mother. This is what happen,” she said sourly. “The baby?”
“He’s asleep.”
The woman reached up and rubbed her forehead as if it ached.
“You should probably get some rest, too, Mrs. Ruocco,”
Sarah ventured. “I know what happened here last night, the Irish boys and the fighting in the street. You’ve been having a difficult time.”
“Rest will not help,” she said bitterly. “That girl, I know she is trouble. I tell Antonio he is fool, but he is married already. What can I do?”
Sarah wasn’t sure how welcome her sympathy would be, but good manners demanded she respond. “You did the right thing, Mrs. Ruocco.”
“The right thing,” she scoffed, but her venom was gone.
She rubbed her forehead again and this time she swayed slightly.
Sarah instinctively caught her. “Come in here and sit down,” she commanded, taking the older woman firmly by the arm and leading her into the parlor.
“I cannot leave boys alone in kitchen. I only come up for a minute,” she protested, but she didn’t resist when Sarah put her in a chair and brought a footstool for her feet.
“I’m sure the boys will be fine, and you won’t be any help at all if you faint and fall down the stairs.”
“I not faint,” she insisted, but without much spirit.
“When did you eat last?” Sarah asked, checking her for fever.
She waved the question away as if it were a pesky fly.
“I guess that means you don’t remember,” Sarah said.
She took her pulse. No fever and her pulse was only a little fast.
“My stomach . . . I am not hungry,” she said dismissively.
“Your stomach may not be hungry, but the rest of you needs some food. Stay here, and I’ll get you something from the kitchen.”
“I go myself,” she tried, starting to get up, but Sarah shook her head.
“You almost fainted just now. I’m not going to let you back down there until you’ve eaten something.”
With that she left, hoping Mrs. Ruocco would have the sense to stay put and rest, at least for a few minutes.
The crowd in the dining room had thinned, and almost everyone seemed to have been served, which was probably why Mrs. Ruocco had felt she could safely come upstairs to check on Maria. The scene in the kitchen was still chaotic, but everyone seemed to know just what they were doing.
Valentina was dishing up food, and Antonio and Joe were serving. All three of them looked up in surprise when Sarah came in.
“Where’s Mama?” Joe asked.
“She’s resting. I came to get her something to eat.”
They stared at her as if she were insane.
“It’s lunchtime,” Valentina said, gesturing toward the busy dining room. “We need her help!”
“Mama never rests,” Antonio added.
“She’s been under a lot of strain,” Sarah reminded them.
“Could you give me some soup and maybe some tea or coffee to take up for her?”
Everything else stopped while the three of them began to argue over what Mama might like. After a minute or two of this, Sarah started lifting pot lids herself, and that spurred them to action. Almost instantly, they arranged a tray of food for their mother, including bread and soup and a plate of spaghetti and a pot of brewing tea. As Sarah hoisted the tray, Joe poured a glass of wine and added it to the tray.
“For her blood,” he said. Then he held the doors for her and waited until she’d disappeared beyond the first turn in the staircase.
Sarah moved slowly and carefully so she wouldn’t spill anything. Relieved that she arrived at the third floor with most of her load intact, she made her way quietly down the hall to the parlor. When she stepped into the room and looked around, she almost dropped the tray.
Mrs. Ruocco had moved. She now sat in a rocking chair on the far side of the room, and in her arms she held the baby.
6
When Frank Malloy left Sarah’s, he went to see Nainsi Ruocco’s grieving mother. He would put off visiting the Ruoccos as long as he could.
He was furious at Mrs. O’Hara for going to the newspapers with her story, but he had to admit, from her point of view, it was a wise move. As he’d told Sarah yesterday, no one would be interested in finding out who’d killed Nainsi if Mrs. O’Hara hadn’t made the girl’s death a public scandal.
Seeing her side of it didn’t help Frank’s temper, though. He was still stuck with the thankless and probably impossible task of finding Nainsi’s killer.
Mrs. O’Hara lived in a rear tenement a few blocks from Mama’s Restaurant. The rear tenements got little sunlight and less air, so they were cheap. Those few blocks were also a world away. The Irish and the Italians didn’t mix much.
Frank found Mrs. O’Hara in her fourth-floor flat.
“I suppose you’re here to tell me you ain’t found out who killed my Nainsi,” she grumbled when she opened the door, and she immediately went back inside, letting Frank find his own way in. She’d been sewing men’s ties by the feeble light from a window that faced a narrow alley. A bundle of fabric lay at one end of her kitchen table and a pile of finished ties lay at the other. He closed the door behind him.