She dug into her reticule and handed each boy some coins. “If they take a cab, follow if you can. But don’t take the train. Come back and tell me.”
When they were a few doors from the store, she took the shoes. “I’ll go in and have them mended. Cross the street and hide behind those-”
“We know how, Donna Fina.” Arcangelo winked. “We stalked the monk, remember? And we know how to cover more than one exit.”
She smiled, recalling the part both had played in helping her catch the Ambrosi murderer. Beppe and Arcangelo disappeared. But as she mounted the shoemaker’s stairs, the ghost of something lurked in her mind.
The shop was nearly empty of shoes, except for a few battered specimens in the corner. Teo greeted her wearing a leather apron that almost scraped the floor. “Papa said I could be in charge of the shop this afternoon.” He wrote up the order and gave her a receipt. “Ready on Monday morning.”
“So soon?”
“For you, Donna Fina.”
She smiled, remembering their last conversation about the gypsy queen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cocoa, almonds, orange: Serafina breathed in the smell of the heavens as she entered the sweet shop next door to the shoemaker. Bending over the glass display, she ran a finger back and forth, looking at all the delicacies. Soon she saw a head of black hair rising up from a stool behind the counter.
“You’re Renata’s mother,” the girl said.
“And you must be the owner of this delicious-smelling store.”
She shook her curls. “The daughter. How can I help?”
“I thought I might get something special for supper tonight. Don’t mind me while I look. Renata’s away. She’s the one who cooks, usually does a marzipan for dessert or a scrumptious cassata.”
The girl nodded. “Most of these are her recipes.”
Serafina felt tears collect in the creases around her eyes, but she brushed them away and smiled at the girl. “You remind me of my middle daughter, Giulia. Same curls, same beautiful figure. She’s tall like you-like her father was. But…” Serafina wiped her eyes with a linen. “I hope I’m not taking too much of your time. You’re the only one tending the store?”
“Yes. Papa lets me run the store after school. No brothers, you see, and I’m the only child left at home. The shop will be mine some day. A lot to learn.”
“I see. Well, where was I?” Her eyes skittered across the counter.
“Choosing something for supper. Might I suggest one of these marzipan cakes? I’d like to give you one as a gift-a token for all the help Renata has given us.”
“How lovely of you. Renata will be so pleased when she hears. I’ll write to her straight away. And my other children will be delighted. On behalf of all of us, thank you.”
The girl nodded and began tying up the package.
“So quiet here today,” Serafina said by way of making conversation.
“In more ways than one,” the girl muttered as she tied up the pastry.
“Pardon?”
She hesitated for a bit. “It’s just that, well, lately, there’s been a lot of commotion next door.” She motioned toward the shoemaker’s shop with her head.
“You mean from outside?”
“No, raised voices coming from the back of the shop next door. Don’t know what’s going on, there. Sometimes it frightens me.”
“I know the shoemaker’s brother used to visit and make demands-”
“Not the brother. He’d come in and there’d be rows in the front. No, the raised voices come from the back.”
“Men’s voices?”
She nodded. “And a woman’s, I think. Sometimes the screams are piercing. Customers notice it.”
“Children’s voices?”
She shook her head. “No. Not Teo. He’s a friend. Helps me with my English. Sometimes he comes in and he’s so quiet-ashamed, maybe. Other times, he smiles and tells me stories and doesn’t close his mouth.”
“When was the last time you heard angry voices?”
She shrugged. “Last week, maybe the week before? Not sure.”
As she closed the door behind her, Serafina frowned. Trouble between Graziella and the shoemaker. No wonder the woman’s bright spirits had not returned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Have some food. We were just getting to dessert.” Rosa’s cook had outdone herself: an enormous cassata stood in the middle of the table next to the marzipan cake from the sweet shop.
Carlo motioned for them to sit.
“Assunta, cake for these two hungry men.”
Both boys sat and began forking in cake. Carlo filled their glasses with wine.
Serafina pushed away her plate. “What took you so long?”
They looked at each other and grinned.
“Yes. You’ve been gone hours. I was beginning to worry. Hurry up, finish your food, then we’ll talk.”
One by one, Serafina’s children quit the room.
“Tell me what happened,” Serafina said, opening her notebook. “First, you followed?”
Arcangelo began. “First, the mother and son came out the side gate hauling a wagon filled with goods.”
“Goods?”
“Books and some spreads and such, maybe a few pantaloons, such as that,” Beppe said.
Arcangelo nodded.
“And?”
“And we followed,” Beppe said.
“They pulled the wagon to the orphanage. We watched them go inside. In an hour or so, they came out again. The wagon was empty.”
Serafina said nothing.
“They went straight home. We hid in the usual place and waited. Waited some more.”
“No sign of the shoemaker?”
“We’re coming to that,” Arcangelo said. “We heard shouting.”
“From his shop?” Serafina asked.
“I think so,” Arcangelo said. “About four o’clock, the shoemaker slipped down the front steps, moving quick.”
“How did you know the hour?”
“My father gave me a timepiece for my birthday.” Arcangelo held up a silver watch twirling from a chain. It glinted back light from the candelabra.
“Hard to follow,” Beppe said. “Lots of people in the piazza at that time on a Saturday.”
“But we did.” Arcangelo stretched his sleeves. “He went to the train station and took the six o’clock to Bagheria. Then we came home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sunday, February 17, 1867
Serafina’s eyes roamed the dilapidated parlor as she waited for Mother Concetta. Dust gathered on the windowsills, made a home for itself on the cushions and in the folds of faded drapes. Was this the best that Guardian Angel Orphanage had to offer its visitors? She gazed at the crucifix listing on the wall, then realized that the room was a masterpiece, appointed with skill to snag those with deep pockets. “The gleam from the coins she’s raised would blind the Madonna,” her mother once told her. She ought to know: they’d been friends for many years and Mother Concetta still mourned Maddalena’s loss. Besides, the old nun had sheltered Carmela when she needed it and had helped Serafina catch the Ambrosi murderer. Beneath her leathery looks was a family friend.
“Spring cleaning, the woman told me,” Mother Concetta said when Serafina asked about Graziella’s visit. “But she’s come here each year about this time to give us what she can. Yesterday she brought books, some hides our cobbler can use, a few clothes her boy had outgrown, and many of her gowns. We can re-make them into dresses for the older girls. She came from money, you know. Raised in a giving way, unlike many I could name.” The nun gave Serafina a look. “Why are you interested?”
Serafina told the nun about visiting Graziella after she delivered her latest. “She seemed, I don’t know, not altogether in the room.”
Mother Concetta shrugged and looked at her with irksome eyes. “You may feign exuberance but the world won’t always open its arms.”