Tuesday, February 11, 1867
Carlo grinned. “Take Colonna’s help if he offers it. And with Loffredo as the examiner, the police can’t sweep away this murder.”
Serafina’s cheeks flamed at the sound of Loffredo’s name. Utter nonsense—no one could replace her husband. Besides, she was still wearing black. “True. And his death will have a big following. He was popular in Oltramari and he’ll need to be buried with military honors.”
“Honors? That guy?”
“Men kill for that medal and he wears it to a festa!” Carlo brushed sand off his lapels. “Unafraid of pickpockets, I guess, or just stupid.”
Gulls keened overhead as Serafina and Carlo rounded the fountain. “After the burial, another brutality will make us forget this one and Ugo’s killer will be free. Unsolved murders suffocate us.”
“Spare me, Mama. Sicily flirts with anarchy. Police and soldiers are too busy quelling riots. The officials are desperate. Why else would the commissioner ask for help from a woman? Anyway, you’re dying to stick your nose into it.”
Photos: Festa in Sicily, Credit: Luce-Chiara#2 (Flickr); Thumbnail: Soldier wearing the Marsala Medal, Public Domain.