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

room and shut the door. Was she using Renata’s gifts for her own gain as Carmela once had admonished? She thought better of leaving her daughter so abruptly and knocked on her door.
    “Just wanted to see your room,” she said, poking her head inside when Renata opened the door.
    Her daughter went to the window, threw open the shutters. “Much better than my room at Villa Zazzu.” In that gesture, Renata seemed so much like Giorgio—a much smaller and feminine version of him, of course—and Serafina couldn’t help comparing her trusting innocence to Carmela’s worldliness—Carmela, a smaller, feistier version of Serafina. And in this moment, Serafina felt a fear for Renata that was so overpowering, she could not bear to be parted from her. Was it the fear of losing her, or remorse for having involved her in this case and with a family who had such dark secrets, a family hiding, at least from themselves, the slow and deliberate murder of its matriarch? Serafina thought of all the possibilities—that the killer still worked near the kitchen and would have access to Renata—that Renata, an innocent, would not know enough to sense danger. Would she be safe without Serafina by her side?
    “And look at the view,” Renata said, showing Serafina the world from her windows, a deep, manicured front lawn and beyond it, the sea. She showed her the walk-in closet, a dresser and, best of all, a large private bath with hot running water.
    “I approve, my darling. Remember to make time for yourself and to have fun. And please, oh please, ring for the housekeeper or butler if you need me. Don’t be shy. If I don’t see you for a while, please know that I haven’t forgotten you, no, not for a minute. Promise?”
    “I’m not a baby, please!”

    Serafina, Renata, and Rosa followed the butler across the marble floor of Lord Notobene’s study, which, together with a separate library and smaller office, occupied one wing off the main entryway. On two sides of the room were fireplaces with smoldering beech logs, lit, no doubt, to burn off the morning chill, their embers stoked by servants in identical livery. The stone hearth nearest the desk was surrounded by a small sofa, side tables, and three overstuffed chairs upholstered in heavy damask and patterned with a hunting scene. A man’s room, Serafina decided, but decorated with care, no doubt by a woman. She smelled orange peel, snuff, and whiskey, the scents of male camaraderie. Her eyes slid around the room, decorated in shades of viridian and caput mortuum, the fringed lampshades glowing with muted flames. Gas jets punctuated two of the rosewood walls.
    But her eyes were drawn to the outer wall of floor-to-ceiling glass in the middle of which were French doors that opened onto a terrace paved in flagstone and framed with blooms, affording a view of the lawns sloping down to the sea. In the middle distance was an aviary where colorful birds flew from branch to perch, and farther down the park was a glass conservatory. Beds of tall grass and flowers lined the far edge of the lawn and both sides of a stone walk. Benches and palm trees surrounded ornamental pools, all arranged so that the eye continuously feasted on an ever-changing scene.
    Real wealth, Serafina concluded, after ticking off the signs in her head: an army of servants, well-kept grounds, lush plantings, leaded-glass windows, brocade drapes, tiled floors, handmade carpets, winding marble staircase, high ceilings, frescoed walls, crystal chandeliers, a fireplace in each room, silver and brass polished to a high gleam. No nicks, no mars, no patches, no balding seats, no signs of dust. Despite a large number of aristocrats, there was little old money left in Sicily unless it was, as in the baron’s case, sullied by trade, a fact that Lady Notobene apparently could not accept. Did her obstinate blindness kill her, or did she die fighting to preserve an impossible world?
    As they approached his desk, Serafina was