Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) by Susan Russo Anderson Page B

It was Lady Caterina’s wish as well. He trusted Doctor Noce to do just that.”
    Serafina wrote in her notebook. “You were in the room with him when he visited?”
    Doucette frowned. “Not I, Madame, the baron.”
    “And when Genoveffa was here, perhaps she stayed in the room with the physician?”
    Doucette thought for a long moment, shook her head. “Always the baron.”
    “Your life has been difficult, but you’ve made so much of it and in such a short time. You’ve attained a position of trust in a foreign country with help from no one, and that is a great accomplishment. I need someone to whom I may turn for help in this investigation.”
    The housekeeper’s face was impossible to read. It held n o expression, and she stared at her. Perhaps she suspected that Serafina was about to propose something not quite trustworthy, but she continued. “Yesterday morning, Sister Genoveffa gave me a journal written by her mother in the last year of her life.”
    “Yes, the daughter, a most remarkable woman.” Doucette crossed her ankles. “Difficult at first.”
    “More than difficult—impossible at first.”
    Doucette nodded but otherwise did not move. It was as if she held her breath, afraid that even her exhaled air would reveal too much.
    Serafina continued with her story. “Unfortunately, the journal was stolen, grabbed from my hand as I left her office.”
    “How terrible for you! You were hurt?”
    “Not at all. Oh, the carabinieri were clever enough and retrieved it from the thieves straightaway. It was returned to me that evening.”
    “Thank goodness!”
    Serafina nodded. A toehold into the woman’s soul, perhaps, and she breathed more easily. “But pages were missing, just ripped out of the binding, and the cover was horribly scuffed, pressed under cartwheels, and it smelled of narrow streets.”
    Doucette laughed. “I know this smell. I was born there, don’t forget.”
    Relieved, Serafina continued. “It was found, a carabiniere told me, in the middle of a street in an undesirable neighborhood.”
    “Horrible! The thieves in your land are everywhere, not just in certain neighborhoods. This I have noticed.”
    “True. Worse since the war, but they say it will change.”
    “Perhaps. Once when cook and I went to market, a basket of fish was taken from us, ripped from our hands, just like your book. They said we should be grateful we weren’t killed. Grateful for what? This I do not understand. But I interrupt your story.” Doucette’s cheeks colored, and her eyes sparkled. Ever so slightly, her back relaxed.
    “Reading the journal last night, I noticed that some of the entries were dated, some, not. But it occurred to me that those who keep journals do not begin the year before they die, but continue in their last years with a lifelong habit.”
    “Quite right, Mada me. And you are wondering if I know where the baroness kept her journals from prior years?”
    “Exactly.”
    Shehunched her shoulders. “I’m not sure, but I tell you this: I was with the baroness for ten years, and I always saw her writing in something, so there must be other books. No one took them, I can safely say—I would have known.”
    “I need your help in finding them.”
    “We must try her sitting room on the first floor and here, in her dressing room and wardrobe.” All business now, Doucette opened the closet door and pointed to several high shelves. “Once I saw the footman helping her store some books up there, high on a shelf in a hatbox. Come and see.”
    With the housekeeper’s help, Serafina stood on the desk chair and because she was taller than Doucette, she was able to reach to the top shelf. She lifted all the hatbox lids, looked inside each box, and in addition to large hats with long feathers, found several boxes filled with the baroness’s journals. Doucette took them from Serafina’s arms and stacked them on the desk.
    “ Mon Dieu ,” Doucette said, looking at the pile of books. “But this