No More Brothers (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Read Free

death.
    “I need to speak with you.”
    “Something’s wrong with the little one?”
    “No, the baby’s fine. A spectacular set of lungs, I might add.” She thought she heard Teo scuffing about somewhere near the entrance. “Another matter entirely. Let’s sit, shall we?”
    Teo appeared, carrying his books. “See you, Papa,” he called over his shoulder, carefully closing the door behind him.
    Rodolfo followed Serafina and stumbled into a seat.
    “We found your brother’s body this morning. Murdered, it appears. My deep sorrow for your loss.”
    He laid a hand on his chest. “Murdered?” His eyes widened. “How?”
    “Stabbed.”
    Color drained from his face. “Where did you…” The shoemaker loosened his collar. He stared straight ahead.
    “In the lower village, on the shore.”
    His eyes darted from side to side. “On the shore? But that’s not…”
    She said nothing for a long minute.
    “Not close, Ugo and I, but my brother, all the same. Stabbed?”
    She nodded. “When was the last time you saw him?”
    He seemed not to hear, but sat rubbing the palms of his hands on his knees. Without warning, he stood, ran a handkerchief over his forehead. “You must excuse me. I need some time.” He struggled out of his apron, staggered a bit, sat down again, and looked at the floor. His face was mottled.
    “Rodolfo?”
    No answer.
    “You are his closest living relative, I take it?”
    He nodded.
    “May I get you something? A cup of water?”
    He shook his head.
    “Take your time. Collect yourself. Hug Graziella. Kiss your baby. I’ll return soon. I’ve some questions.”

CHAPTER SIX
Silver and Gold
    A uniformed man stood by the gate of Ugo’s home. Pots of wisteria and lavender withered near the stoop. Paint peeled on the door.
    Inside, Serafina smiled at her son. A minor light seeped through the cracks and the air smelled sour. She opened the shutters. She looked above the mantel for Ugo’s Marsala Medal, but it was missing.
    A cat meowed. Carlo picked up the thin tabby and spilled it into Serafina’s arms. It purred and kneaded her cape. They began walking around the room, Serafina touching the rim of a vase, swiping dust off a shelf, straightening the glass of a lamp. A tattered oilcloth covered the kitchen table. On it stood an empty bottle, two wine-stained glasses, crumpled table linen, and a nearly spent candle, its wick captured in a pool of cold wax. No crumbs, no dirty dishes.
    “Looks like Ugo had a visitor before he died,” she said.
    When Serafina turned over one of the napkins, she saw traces of the same yellowish residue she’d seen around Ugo’s mouth. The cat jumped from her arms and disappeared as she slipped the napkin and two glasses into her satchel.
    Colonna swayed from side to side around the room. He peered up at the ceiling, down at the floor, ran his hand over an armrest and underneath cushions. Stopping in front of the fireplace, he said to his men, “See that loose stone? Lift it. Something’s underneath.”
    While the police worked at the stone, Serafina groped her way down a dingy hall and into the bedroom.
Bare mattress, sour smell, crumpled bedding, dust everywhere—a man’s room.
She saw a large cabinet on the opposite wall and opened it. Instead of clothes, tarnished pieces of silver crammed the shelves. Elaborate candelabra, pitchers, serving bowls, trays, goblets, silver-encased cruets, jewel-encrusted chalices. Lifting a silver vase, she looked on the bottom and studied the hallmark, a vulture and the date, 1653, above some letters she could not read. Wedged in the back on the bottom shelf was a ledger.
    Then she remembered Loffredo’s words: Ugo fenced silver for the nobility. He had contacts on the continent, no doubt, where he sold the goods. “The aristocrats of Sicily sit on balding velvet and pretend Unification never happened. They’d rather sell their heirlooms than soil their hands with trade,” Loffredo told her.
    Loffredo ought to know.