Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] (39 page)

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Authors: Deadly Desire

BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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Fortunately, she did not believe in ghosts. Still, Francesca hurried down the dimly lit hall, wishing it were more brightly lit, relieved to leave the room with the corpse. She checked the front door. It was locked. That made her feel a bit better.
She cracked open the only other door on the hall, other than the parlor door, and glanced into a small dining room. It was cast in shadow. She vaguely made out an oak table and four chairs, a floral arrangement, and a sideboard with knickknacks. A kitchen had to be on the other side of the alcove. Francesca hesitated.
If there was a kitchen door that led to a garden out back or the street out front, she wanted to make sure it was locked. She was very nervous now. And why not? She was guarding the corpse of a man who had been murdered less than five hours ago.
Francesca looked up at the dark stairs. “Miss de Labouche?” she called.
There was no answer.
“Georgette?” she tried again, with the same lack of success.
Francesca glanced behind her. The parlor remained so brilliantly lit, and the dead body in the pool of blood remained a grotesquely eye-catching spectacle. Francesca realized just how nervous she was.
That was it. She dashed through the small dining alcove, trying not to consider that the murderer might still be in the
house—of course that made no sense—and she found herself in the kitchen. This house did not have electricity, and it was a moment before Francesca turned on one gaslight. There was a back door. It was locked.
She sighed in abject relief.
When she heard something.
Instinct caused Francesca to turn off the light and crouch down beside the doorway to the dining alcove. She had not closed the dining room door, and she could just glimpse the hall beyond.
She heard something again. God damn it, but it was the front door, she was certain of it, being carefully closed.
Francesca ducked completely behind the kitchen doorway, now perspiring madly. Joel had left about five minutes ago. Maybe, maybe, he could run from here to Bragg’s in five minutes. But there was just no way that he was already returning, alone or with Bragg, and anyway, they would have to knock.
She trembled and heard a floorboard creak.
Someone had entered the house. Someone was in the hall. Someone who was not announcing himself—someone who had a key.
She heard more soft footsteps.
Francesca went blank. But she had to know who the intruder was. She thought he had walked past the dining room doorway, but she wasn’t sure. Keeping on all fours now, she peered around the kitchen doorway and into the dining room.
Just in time to glimpse a man’s silhouette as he walked past while in the hall.
Francesca ducked back. She heard the man halt. And there was a very soft, barely audible expletive, followed by absolute silence.
She imagined he had seen the body and that was what had stopped him in his tracks and caused him to curse. Was he staring at it now?
Suddenly she heard brisk footsteps returning. Francesca did not dare peer around the corner again, as much as she wanted to. She held her breath, afraid he might feel her presence,
afraid he might change course and discover her hiding in the other room.
The front door opened and closed.
Francesca jumped up and ran into the dining room and shoved aside the draperies to peer onto the street, her pulse racing wildly. A very nice gig was pulling away from the curb, a single man its occupant—the driver. He was too far away for her to make out any features.
Francesca stared. Who in blazes had just walked into Georgette de Labouche’s house in order to stare at her dead lover? Who would do such a thing, then turn around without a word and leave?
What in tarnation was going on?
Deadly Affairs
“You have a caller, Francesca.”
Francesca halted at the sound of her mother’s voice, having just handed her coat, hat, muff, and gloves to a servant. She slowly turned, with dread.
For the voice had been sharp. Now, disapproval covered Julia’s attractive face. She was an older image of both daughters: blond, blue-eyed, with classic and fine features. Although over forty, she remained slim and glamorous; many men her own age often eyed her in a covert manner.
“Good day, Mama,” Francesca said nervously. She had seen
The Sun.
Francesca would wager her life on it.
Julia Van Wyck Cahill was magnificently attired, clearly dressed for an early evening affair. Her sapphire-blue gown revealed a slim and pleasing figure, while two tiers of sapphires adorned her neck. Before she could answer, Andrew appeared on the stairs, in a white dinner jacket and satintrimmed black trousers. He took one look at Francesca and his expression became pinched, with disbelief and accusation warring in his eyes.
“I can explain,” Francesca whispered.
“What can you explain?” Andrew demanded, halting beside his wife. “That you have made the front page of
The Sun
? That you once again immersed yourself in a dangerous affair? One belonging, I believe, to the police?”
Francesca inhaled. How to begin? Before she could speak, her mother interrupted.
“I am aghast. I am aghast that my daughter would confront a killer and place herself in unspeakable danger. This shall not continue, Francesca. You have gone too far.” Julia
turned and nodded at a servant, who was holding her magnificent sable coat for her. She allowed him to slip it over her shoulders.
“I am beginning to wonder if my brilliant daughter has truly lost her mind,” Andrew said.
Francesca cringed. Papa never spoke to her in such a manner. “I helped the police enormously,” Francesca murmured. The fact was, she had solved the case at the eleventh hour.
“You have been up to your ears in police affairs ever since Bragg arrived in town,” Julia said sharply. “Do you think I am blind, Francesca? I can see what is happening.”
“Nothing is happening,” Francesca tried, stealing a glance at her father. He knew about Bragg’s married state, she thought suddenly. This was the secret he had been keeping. But why hadn’t he told her?
“We are on our way out for the evening, but we shall speak tomorrow morning, Francesca.” Julia gave her a look that was filled with warning, and did not look at her again while Andrew donned his coat. But her father met her gaze, shaking his head, looking so terribly grim that Francesca knew she was in a kind of trouble she had never dreamed of. There was no relief when they left the house. But what could they do? She was a grown woman.
Francesca relaxed slightly. She would worry about her parents tomorrow. She turned as Bette handed her a delicately engraved calling card on a small sterling tray. Francesca studied the card for a moment, curiously; she did not believe she had ever met a Mrs. Lincoln Stuart. She thanked Bette and entered the far salon.
It was beautifully appointed, but small, and used for more intimate gatherings, such as a single caller. It was painted a pale, dusky yellow, and most of the furnishings were in various shades of yellow or gold, with several red and navyblue accents. The moment Francesca entered the room, she saw Mrs. Lincoln Stuart. She had been sitting on a sofa at the room’s other end, but upon espying Francesca, she instantly stood. Francesca smiled and approached.
Mrs. Lincoln Stuart twisted her hands.
Francesca saw that she was a few years older than her. She was rather plain in appearance, her features usual and unsurprising. But her hair was a beautiful cascade of chestnut curls, and it was what one noticed first. She was very well-dressed, in a green floral suit and skirt, and she wore a rather large, yellow diamond ring. Her husband was obviously wealthy. And she was nervous and distressed.
“Miss Cahill. I do hope you do not mind me calling like this,” Mrs. Stuart said in a husky voice, one filled with tension. Worry was expressed in her eyes.
Francesca smiled warmly, pausing before her. “Of course not,” she said politely. “Have we met?”
“No, we have not, but I was given this by a boy the other day.” And Mrs. Stuart handed her a card.
Francesca recognized it instantly—how could she not? Tiffany’s had printed the cards at her request upon the conclusion of the Burton Affair. It read:
Francesca Cahill Crime-Solver Extraordinaire No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small
“My assistant, Joel Kennedy, must have handed this to you,” Francesca mused, pleased. She had recently assigned him the task of drumming up business for her. She glanced up at Mrs. Stuart. Was she a prospective client? Francesca’s heart thudded in anticipation.
“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 manage.
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.

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