Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (46 page)

“I don’t know the boy’s name, I only know that I am frightened and I have no one to turn to,” Mrs. Stuart cried, her eyes wide. Francesca saw that they were green and lovely. Mrs. Stuart was the kind of woman who had a quiet kind of beauty, one that was not instantly remarkable, she decided.

Francesca also realized that she was on the verge of tears. She took her arm. “Do sit down, and I am sure I can help you, Mrs. Stuart,” she said. “No matter what your problem might be.” There was no doubt now; Mrs. Stuart had come to her for help. This would be her second official case!

The woman dug a handkerchief out of her velvet purse. It was hunter-green, like the trim on her elegant tea gown. “Please, call me Lydia,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “I saw today’s article in
The Sun,
Miss Cahill. You are a heroine, a brave heroine, and when I realized that you are the same woman on this card, I knew it was you to whom I must turn.”

“I am hardly a heroine, Lydia,” Francesca said, barely containing her excitement. “Excuse me.” She rushed to the salon door and closed it, so that no one might overhear the conversation. Her resolve to take a “sabbatical” from sleuthing had vanished. In fact, she forgot all about her studies now. She hurried back to her guest—her
client
—and sat down. What could this woman’s problem be? And was she truly going to have, for the very first time, a paying client? In the past, she had offered her services for free. A paying client would truly make her a professional woman.

Lydia managed to smile at her, and she now handed Francesca a small piece of paper, upon which were two names, Rebecca Hopper, and an address, 40 East 30th Street. “What is this?” Francesca asked.

Lydia Stuart’s face changed, becoming filled with distaste. “Mrs. Hopper is a widow, and that is where she lives. I believe my husband is having an affair with her, but I want to know the truth.”

Francesca stared.

“And I have no doubt that he will be there tonight, as he has said he is working late and he will not be home for supper,” Lydia added.

Mrs. Hopper’s residence was a corner one, and while all of the lights were on downstairs, only one bedroom upstairs was illuminated. It had been years since Francesca had climbed a tree, and now she was sorry that she had not gone further downtown to locate Joel to do her evening’s work for her. He would have been very useful indeed—especially as he did not have cumbersome skirts to deal with.

Huffing and puffing, her hands freezing because she had stripped off her gloves, she sought another foothold in the huge tree she was climbing, clinging to the trunk.

She had decided to tackle Lydia’s case head-on. It was nine
P.M.
, and a quick look at the house had shown her that if she climbed the big tree in the yard, she might very well be able to spy upon the lovers directly. In fact, if Lydia were right, this case might be solved before it was even begun.

Francesca made it to the large, higher branch. She clung to it, one leg atop it, both arms around it. Her skirts were in the way; she had not worn men’s clothing for she did not have the psychic ability to know when she would be climbing trees. With great effort, she somehow moved her other leg onto the thick branch, and then she hugged it with all her might, afraid she was going to fall. She glanced down.

She was not sure she liked heights. When she had been on the ground, in the yard, the tree had not seemed so tall. Now, looking down, her cheek upon the rough bark, her hands feeling rather scraped and raw, the ground looked very far away.

She had not a doubt that if she fell, the snow would be rock-hard, as it was solidly frozen. It would not break her fall; she might wind up with a broken arm, or God forbid, a broken neck.

But she was determined to ignore her cowardice now. Very, very carefully, Francesca sat up. When she was astride the branch as if it were a horse, she began to breathe easier. This wasn’t too bad. She believed she could mange.

Dismayed, she suddenly realized her eyes were still below the window and she could not see into the bedroom in order to learn what was going on. She was going to have to stand up.

But Francesca realized she was turned around the wrong way—the trunk of the tree was behind her.
Oh dear.
This might be far too dangerous a maneuver, she thought.

She could not see into the bedroom, and she was at a grave risk if she tried to turn around. Now what?

There was no choice. She had to turn herself around. She simply had to.
Because Lydia Stuart was her first paying client.

Francesca lifted her right leg up slowly, until she was able to move it up and over the branch. Now she sat with both legs dangling off the same side of the tree, and her position was precarious at best. She failed to breathe now. She had to reverse herself, but she was afraid to move.

That was when she slipped.

Francesca cried out as she lost her balance and started to slide off the branch. Instantly, desperately, she reached out, trying to grasp the branch with her hands, the bark scraping and abrading her palms, and for one moment, she thought she had succeeded in stopping herself. She gripped the tree, but then her hands failed her and suddenly she was falling through space.

She saw the white snow below, racing towards her face, and she thought,
Oh dear, this is it. It is all over now.

Whomp.

Francesca landed hard on her shoulder and her side, not her face, her head smacking down last. And then she was spitting out snow.

God, she thought, dazed. Was she intact? Had she broken anything?

She began to move. The snow was not as frozen as she had thought it would be; it was not rock-hard, surprisingly. She wiggled her toes and fingers in the snow, moved her hands and legs.

She froze.

Had she just touched something? Something beneath the snow? Something
sticky?
And
solid?

Francesca sat up shakily, and as she stood, she looked down at her own hands.

One was pale and white in the moonlight, the other was dark and splotched in places.

She had an inkling. She did not move. She recognized those splotches.

Her heart pumped hard now.

And then she rubbed her fingers together.
Oh, no.

Francesca was on her knees, tearing at the frozen snow. And as she moved the top layer away, she found a piece of garment.

Francesca stared at a patch of brown wool, and the dark, still not thoroughly frozen, stain upon it.

She touched it.

It was no different than what had been on her fingertips; it was blood, and it was fresh.

Someone was buried in the snow, recently, and maybe the person was alive!

Francesca pawed the snow frantically, shoving it away in clumps, and then she saw the woman’s face—she saw the open, sightless blue eyes, and they were glazed in terror.

She saw the throat.

She stood, and unable to help herself, she screamed.

For carved in the once-pristine white skin was a perfect and bloody cross.

The Channings lived on the unfashionable West Side of the city. Sarah Channing was becoming a good friend, ever since her engagement to Francesca’s brother, Evan. When her father had died, her mother, a rather frivolous and harmless socialite, had inherited his millions and promptly built their new house. As Francesca approached the mansion, which was quite new and horrendously gothic, she clutched her reticule as if she expected a cutpurse to appear and seize it.

Francesca was told by the doorman that Miss Channing was not receiving visitors.

“Would you care to leave your card?” the liveried doorman asked.

“Harold? Who is it?”

Francesca stepped forward at the sound of Mrs. Channing’s voice. A not-quite-pretty woman with reddish-blond hair who was extremely well-dressed and somehow reminded one of a flighty, mindless bird was entering the foyer. “Why, Francesca! This is quite the surprise!” She clapped her beringed hands together in childish delight.

Francesca managed a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Channing. I am sorry to hear that Sarah is indisposed. I hope she is not too ill?”

Mrs. Channing’s dark eyes widened. Then she put her arm around Francesca and leaned toward her, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps this is a stroke of fate, indeed. That you should choose this very day to call!”

Francesca looked into her dramatically widened eyes—as there was little else to do, with the other woman’s face a mere two inches from her own. “Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Channing?”

“We are in the midst of a crisis,” Mrs. Channing said. Her breath was sweet, as if she had been eating raspberries and chocolates.

Francesca was in no mood for a crisis other than her own. “Perhaps I should leave word that I have called—and come back at another time.”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Channing cried, finally releasing Francesca. “I
told
Sarah we should call for you! But she said you were recovering from that horrid encounter with the Cross Killer, and we mustn’t disturb you! But you are a sleuth, dearie, and we do need a sleuth now! Nor do I have the foggiest of whom else to call upon in our time of need!”

Francesca straightened. In spite of her worries, she could not help being intrigued. “You have need of an investigator?” she asked, a familiar tingle now running up and down her spine.

Mrs. Channing nodded eagerly. “Why, what has happened?”

“Come with me!” Mrs. Channing exclaimed. And she was already hurrying into the hall.

Francesca followed, not bothering to hand off her coat, hat, and single glove. She quickly realized, as they moved down one hall and then another, that they were heading in the direction of Sarah’s studio. She was perplexed.

Suddenly Mrs. Channing turned and placed her back against the door of Sarah’s studio, barring the way. “Prepare yourself,” she warned, rather theatrically.

Francesca nodded, holding back a smile, more than intrigued now. What could be going on?

Mrs. Channing smiled, as if in satisfaction, and she thrust open the door.

Francesca stepped inside. The room was all windows, and brilliantly lit. She cried out.

Someone had been on a rampage in the room.

Canvases, palettes, and jars were overturned. Paint was splattered across the floor and walls, the effect vivid, brilliant, and disturbing. Amidst the yellows, blues, and greens, there were slashes of black and dark, dark red. For an instant, Francesca thought the red was blood.

She rushed forward, kneeled, and dabbed her finger into a drying pool of dark red. It was paint, not blood.

Then she saw the canvas lying face up on the floor.

It had been slashed into ribbons.

“Sarah! I cannot believe what happened!” Francesca cried. She had been pacing in a huge, mostly gilded salon, which was as overdone as the outside of the house. A bear rug complete with head and fangs competed with the Orientals on the floor; chairs had hooves and claws for feet, and one lamp had a tusk for a pull cord. Mr. Channing, God rest his soul, had been a hunter and a collector of strange and exotic objects. Apparently his widow was continuing his hobby.

Sarah had just entered the room. She was a small and plain brunette, although her eyes were huge and pretty. Today, she was wearing a drab blue dress covered with splotches of paint. She appeared very pale, her nose and eyes red. Clearly, she had been weeping. “Francesca? What are you doing here?” she asked softly—brokenly.

Francesca forgot all about her own problems. She rushed forward and embraced her friend. “You poor dear! Who would do such a thing?”

Sarah trembled in her arms. “I told Mother not to call you! You have a badly burned hand and you are recuperating!”

Francesca stepped back. “Your mother did not telephone me. I called upon you, dear.”

Their eyes met. Tears welled in Sarah’s. “I did not want to bother you, not now, not after what happened on Tuesday,” referring to the aftermath of the Channing ball.

Francesca took Sarah’s hand with her own good one. “How could you
not
call me? I am your friend! Sarah, we must catch this miserable culprit! Have you called the police?” Her heart skipped madly. These days, the police and Rick Bragg were one and the same and never mind what Connie had said a few minutes ago.

“Not yet. I have been too devastated. I just found out this morning,” Sarah said, and she was shaking visibly.

Mrs. Channing stepped into the room. “Sarah gets up before dawn. She takes a tea and goes directly into her studio. She will spend the entire day there, if I do not rescue her from her frenzy.”

Francesca looked from mother to daughter. “So you found your studio that way when you went down this morning?” she asked.

Sarah nodded.

“Why don’t you girls sit down? Francesca, have you had lunch?” Mrs. Channing asked.

“No, but I would like a moment alone with Sarah, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Channing.”

Mrs. Channing seemed taken aback.

Francesca smiled, politely but firmly. “Do you wish me to take—and solve—the case? If so, I need to interview your daughter.”

“Oh, of course! My, Francesca, you are so professional.” Then Mrs. Channing smiled. “I shall have a small meal put out anyway. Do as you shall, then, Francesca.” She left, closing the door behind her.

“Francesca, how can you take my case now when you are hurt? Besides, didn’t you promise to rest for a few weeks?” Sarah looked her directly in the eye.

She had, and she had mentioned her resolve to Sarah. “Never you mind, my hand is healing very well, Finny said so himself. I would never let down a friend in need.” Francesca smiled and guided her to a couch, where they both sat down. She leaned forward eagerly. “What time did you first enter your studio?”

“It was five-fifteen. I get up at five on most mornings, and go directly there.” She smiled a little. “And I take coffee, not tea, black with one sugar.”

Francesca patted her hand. “And when were you last in your studio? On Friday morning?”

Sarah nodded. “I worked there until about noon on Friday.” Suddenly she covered her heart with her hand. “Francesca, I am so shocked. And worse, I feel ill. I feel … raped, I suppose. Or I imagine that this is what being raped feels like. I am shocked and sad and angry and I cannot stop crying! Why would someone do this? Why?” she cried, a tear sliding down her cheek.