Read Online Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) by Susan Russo Anderson - Free Book Online Page A

Rings? Necklaces? Family jewels?”
    Sophie shook her head. “I don’t
recall seeing any. Now if you will excuse me ...” She rang again for the
butler.
    They walked to the carriage in
silence, Serafina breathing in the fresh air, glad to be done with Sophie.
Paris was serene, this neighborhood leafy and silent, spared from Baron
Haussmann’s harsh restorations, haunted in a way that only old neighborhoods
can be. They watched a family in black walking on the other side of the street,
a father and sons with curls and fur hats and prayer shawls, the mother and
girls following behind. A grocer in his apron stood in the doorway of his shop,
his arms crossed, his face pleasant. He nodded to them as they passed.
    “Sophie is such a arrogant
creature. A beauty in her time but a shame she’s let herself go,” Rosa said. “I
knew we’d get nothing from her.”
    “On the contrary,” Serafina
said.

 
    * * *

 
    They stood on the Pont Neuf
admiring the statue of Henry IV and the charm of the Place Dauphine. But the
flying buttresses of Notre Dame reminded Serafina of the creep of despair. For
a while they watched the barges glide up and down the Seine until she said
something about her feet.
    “That’s all you can say of Paris
is that your feet ache? Look around you. The style, the vigor, the glorious
food, the pomp, the gilt, the spectacle.”
    “Will you stop?”
    “The parks and buildings,
Haussmann’s magnificence, Paris glittering and transformed, the romance of
it—so beautiful it wets my eyes.”
    Serafina was amazed. The madam
waxed poetic. She wished she could stick her feet in a bowl of hot water.
    Rosa continued. “The buildings
freshly whitewashed, the slate roofs gleaming with pale light, the doors
covered in such luscious colors and such thick lacquer. Even the chimneys
complement the scene. And look at the wide boulevards and how they’re paved. If
I have to listen to you complaining about how cold you are one more time, I’ll
scream, I swear it. We have an hour to spare before we meet with the prefect.
Take Busacca at his word and have them design a hat for you. No wonder your
feet are frozen.
    Rosa had a point. They hired a
fiacre and made their way to Busacca et Fils, Milliners, a large store on the
corner of Rue de la Paix and Rue St. Augustin. A beam of sun shone on the
glass. Hats, hats, hats filled the window, and the shellacked wooden façade was
painted a lovely shade of chromium oxide. As they opened the door, a brass bell
sounded their arrival. They were met by a man in a waxed mustache and frock
coat.
    “Ah, such a shame, you have just
missed Madame.” He wrung his gloved hands. “She left not five minutes ago for
an appointment.”
    “When do you expect her return?
I’ve a question I forgot to put to her earlier today.”
    “Soon.” He smiled. “She went
around the corner. She shouldn’t be long. If you care to wait, I will have my
designer show you something to suit your extraordinary face.”
    After she presented Busacca’s
card, the clerk begged her to be seated at one of many small tables and rushed
to the back of the store. She saw elegantly attired women at other stations,
clerks dressed in black showing them hats with feathers, small pill boxes with
elaborate veils. He returned with a woman wearing a smock, a measuring tape
draped around her neck. She carried several hats, most of them in wool, some in
velvet, others in straw; some large with interesting brims to guard from the
sun, but all were serviceable and stylish at the same time.
    “A woman is not dressed until
she wears a hat, Madame.”
    “This is not her usual costume,”
Rosa said. “She’s a sleuth. She’s been following seedy types in different parts
of town and dressing down for the occasion. Imagine her in suitable attire,
please, and do design for a more mysterious but serviceable look. She’s not
used to the bite of Paris stones in the spring.”
    “Yes, Madame. We have women come
to us from all