Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (10 page)

“We will all keep your mother company while she dines,” Neil said firmly. Then his turquoise gaze found Connie’s.

Their eyes held.

Connie felt herself flush and she looked away first.

“I have missed you, Connie,” Neil said quietly.

She started, dismayed, and if the children hadn’t been present, she would have run away. Instead, she faced him with a brittle smile. “I’ve hardly been away, Neil.”

“They miss you, too,” he said, referring to the girls.

She could hardly breathe. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what? Tell you the truth? That I love you and I miss you?” he asked, his brilliant gaze intense.

Connie stared, her hands clenched. How dare he talk about the truth when he had lied to her! In fact, she wanted him out of the house!

But there was another part of her that wanted her marriage back. That wanted Neil back.

Neil’s resolute expression crumbled. “I see I am talking to a brick wall,” he said, turning away.

“Mommy isn’t a brick wall,” Charlotte said in confusion. “Mommy still loves you, Daddy. I know it!”

Neil whirled, aghast.

Connie was as stricken. She raced to her daughter. “Of course I love your father,” she cried, and although the words were reflexive, she closed her eyes, horrified. Because she had spoken the truth.

Somehow, impossibly, she still loved her husband. In spite of what he had done.

But hadn’t she been the one to chase him into the arms of another woman
?

Connie knew the rules of a good marriage. They had been instilled within her as a part of her education while she was growing up. It was the wife who always admitted that she was wrong, whether it was the truth or not. It was the wife who always gracefully took the blame, if there was blame to be had. Wives did not argue with their spouses. If one’s husband wished to tell you that he had just climbed Mount Rainier, one must agree—cheerfully. Wives were elegant, genteel, well dressed, and well coiffed. And a wife never refused her husband’s sexual advances.

But Connie had done just that.

She had made it clear to Neil after Lucinda’s birth that she did not want him to touch her. She had made it clear that she did not want to share her favors. She found love-making shameful. Or rather, she was ashamed of what happened to her in bed. No one had to tell her that ladies simply did not behave like whores, as she certainly did.

Charlotte raced to Neil, beaming. “See? I told you, Daddy. You don’t have to be so sad anymore.”

Connie clasped her hand over her mouth to hide a gasp.

In return, Neil gave her a very angry look, one that said,
This is what you are doing to the children
! But ever the gentleman, at least on the surface, he said, strained, “May I take you and the girls for a carriage ride in Central Park? It is a beautiful day.”

“I am taking them shopping,” Connie said. “I promised Charlotte.”

He kept his face rigid, but she knew him so well, and she saw more hurt and disappointment in his eyes. “Very well,” he said softly. “I see that I am intruding. That was not my intention. I think it is a grand idea, a day of shopping for the ladies.” He smiled down at Charlotte.

“But you can come, too, Daddy,” Charlotte said. “We can all go,
together
.”

Connie could not bear the idea. “Charlotte, your father has appointments to keep. It shall be a day just for us ladies. We shall have so much fun! Perhaps, as the weather is clement, we shall do the Ladies’ Mile.”

Charlotte pouted, looking displeased.

Neil said, without any emotion, “Your mother is right. I do have many business affairs to attend to. I will see you all later.” With that, he swept Charlotte up for a hug, kissed Lucinda warmly, and strode out, not sparing Connie a single backward glance.

She stared after him, stunned.

And she was afraid. For it occurred to her that she was about to really lose her husband.

The Channing residence was on the West Side, commonly referred to as “Dakota” by Manhattan’s residents, as it was so far away from everything and everyone. Sarah’s mother, Abigail Channing, had been widowed for the past few years, and she had built herself a huge and grotesquely ornate mansion with her dead husband’s money. Ignoring the many gargoyles glaring at her and Bragg, Francesca paused on the front stone steps. A tall, round tower reminiscent of medieval times graced each corner of the house.

Bragg spoke briefly to the uniformed roundsman standing on the paved walk not far from the front door. “Any trouble at all last night or this morning?”

“No, sir,” the young man said nervously. He smiled at Bragg.

Bragg did not notice. “Anyone suspicious lurking about? Any odd visitors or deliveries?”

“Not a single visitor, Commissioner, sir.” The blond man almost saluted Bragg now as he spoke.

Francesca bit back a smile and saw Newman huffing and puffing as he raced up the stone path toward them, having just alighted from a cab. She banged the door knocker twice. “You have instilled the fear of God in them,” she murmured.

“I doubt that, but there will be another round of demotions next week.” He smiled at her.

Francesca was surprised. “Why?” He had already demoted 300 wardsmen, reassigning many detectives to foot patrol. By breaking up unit after unit, he had hoped to stop the graft, corruption, and bribery rampant in the force.

“There have been rumors of a series of shakedowns in Germantown. I suspect a showdown with Tammany Hall is imminent.”

Francesca did not like the sound of that, and her heart lurched with fear. It had been a miracle, really, that Seth Low, a Citizen’s Union candidate, had won the mayor’s office from the Democrats and Tammany Hall. In spite of being opposed by the likes of Odell and Platt, Tammany Hall was an extremely powerful political force—that is, they lured German factory workers to the polls with outright bribes of beer and cash. Bragg was but one man. She did not want to see him take on such a huge and significant battle, not alone.

Understanding her completely, he said softly, “I will be fine, Francesca.”

She breathed hard. “I do hope so.”

Newman reached them, breathlessly greeting them both. “Sir? We got a lead on Miss Conway. Apparently a week ago—Bennett thinks it was the Monday or Tuesday before last—she had a huge row with a man. He could hear her shouting and all kinds of objects being thrown around her flat.” Bragg avoided Francesca completely while she was grim and resigned. It had obviously been a terrible row, she thought.

Bragg hesitated. “Do we know who that man was?”

Newman was grim. He flushed, darting a glance at Francesca. “Er, seems she had a lover. Might have been someone, er, named, er, Evan, er, Cahill.”

Bragg sighed. Francesca clasped Newman’s arm, deciding to take him off the hook. “I know she was my brother’s mistress, Inspector, and I also know that he broke up with her last week. But he is not a murderer. He would never do such a thing.”

Newman was grim. “I got to tell the c’mish the facts, Miz Cahill. I am sorry,” he added.

“Let’s keep this quiet, Newman,” Bragg said. “As I do not want the newsmen of this city getting their hands on this and blowing it all out of proportion. It will only make finding the real killer that much harder.”

“Yes, sir. Didn’t tell a soul. Except Hickey was with me, of course, when we interviewed Mr. Bennett again.”

Francesca quickly spoke up. “Please press upon Detective Hickey the need for discretion.”

“He’s discreet. You don’t need to worry about him. C’mish, sir? We found three art galleries in a ten-block radius from the scene. Hickey an’ me are going to start interviews when they open. Seems likely she might be known in a gallery close to her home.”

“Good work,” Bragg said with a smile, clasping Newman upon the shoulder. He seemed more than pleased—had he been four-legged and shaggy, he would have rolled over.

They turned to the business at hand. Francesca knocked again. A servant opened the door a moment later and ushered them in. “Any leads on the whereabouts of Thomas Neville?” Bragg asked over his shoulder. The manservant asked them to wait, hurrying off to find either Mrs. Channing or Sarah.

“No, sir. We been havin’ trouble finding his old landlord, sir. George Holiday seems to be in a bit o’ debt and on the run from the banks. But we’ll catch up with him sooner or later.”

“This will slow down our investigation,” Bragg murmured to Francesca.

She agreed wholeheartedly.

His words were barely spoken when Abigail Channing came pitter-pattering toward them in her low-heeled slippers and a huge burgundy velvet gown. She wore rubies to complement the dramatic gown, more suitable for evening than for day. But she was a very wealthy widow. “Commissioner! Francesca! What a wonderful surprise,” she cried in her breathy, childish voice. Her delight was childish as well. Francesca knew, however, that she meant no harm.

“Hello, Mrs. Channing.” Francesca smiled somewhat fondly at her.

The strawberry blonde quickly gestured them to enter a huge, exotically furnished salon—every time Francesca entered the room she expected the bear rug on the floor, complete with a head and fangs, to leap up at her—and offered them refreshments.

Bragg declined. “Mrs. Channing, we are still investigating the incident in Sarah’s studio last week. We do need to speak with your daughter,” he said.

“How is Sarah?” Francesca added.

“She is much better,” Mrs. Channing said. “She was up and about quite early this morning. That Rourke Bragg is a wonderful doctor!” She beamed. “And so handsome, too!”

Francesca decided not to correct her, though Rourke was not quite a legitimate doctor yet. When she had gone to get Sarah, Francesca said to Bragg, “There is something I have been thinking about.”

He smiled. His amber eyes were soft and warm. “Do tell.”

She smiled back, her heart stirring at the look he was giving her. “The roses in Miss Neville’s apartment. They were fully opened. One or two were dying. That would make me conclude that they had been bought a day or two before. Two days before seems more likely, which would make it the day of Miss Conway’s murder. Someone brought Miss Neville flowers, Bragg. She has an admirer.”

“Unless the vase was empty, and Miss Conway was carrying the roses when she was murdered,” he said. “And it should not surprise me if the flowers had been hers, considering the box of admiring mail we found in her flat.”

He had a point. “Bragg, I am bothered now. Could Miss Neville be in hiding? It has occurred to me that perhaps she saw Miss Conway murdered—and that she knows the killer’s identity.”

“Francesca, we do not know that she is in hiding or that she saw anything. Perhaps she came home before the murder and then went out again.” But his expression told her he did not believe his last theory.

“Then where is she? Why hasn’t she come home? Is she with a lover? Surely one of her neighbors might know if she has that kind of friend.” A new thought struck her. “We should go round to the art galleries until we find someone who knows her!”

“I have already put that task on Newman’s list. He’ll start with the galleries on Broadway, closest to her flat, and work his way out from there.”

Francesca now wondered if Hart knew of Miss Neville.

“What is it?”

She hesitated, aware of her cheek warming.

“Francesca?”

“I should speak with Hart. As he knows just about everyone in the art world, he might prove very useful to us in this investigation.”

Bragg didn’t appear thrilled. “Yes,
I
should speak with Calder,” he said. “And I intend to do so before the day is out.”

Francesca decided to drop the subject. Of course, sooner or later she had to speak with Calder on behalf of her brother and she could easily kill two birds with one stone. Now, however, was not the time to think of Calder Hart.

I always get what I want . . . whether the object of my desire is a painting . . . a sculpture. Or a lucrative shipping contract. . . . Or a woman
.

She shivered, his face implanted there in his mind, dark
skin, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and flashing white teeth. The problem was, he wasn’t merely arrogant, for she believed his every word.

But this time, of course, he was in for a big surprise.

“What is distracting you, Francesca?” Bragg asked, taking her arm. “Is it Evan?”

She started. “I am very afraid for him,” she breathed, then realized she had lied to Bragg, in a way, for her worries had been about Hart in that moment and not about her brother.

“I am going to pay a call on Andrew LeFarge and make my position very clear,” Bragg said softly, steel resolution in his eyes. “If he should be so foolish as to harm a single hair on your brother’s head again, he will have this city’s entire police force after him.”

She melted. Hart disappeared from her mind. “You would threaten him, using your position as commissioner to do so, for me?”

“Yes.”

Their gazes locked. This was why she loved Rick Bragg—he was always there for her no matter what.

And then Sarah and her mother appeared on the threshold of the salon. Instantly Francesca rushed forward to embrace the petite brunette. Sarah looked much better than she had the other day. The color had returned to her cheeks, light to her dark eyes. She had taken all of her wonderful waist-length Pre-Raphaelite curls and coiled her hair into a severe bun, which detracted from her small, fine features. As always, she was wearing an ensemble that did not suit her at all—this one was a dark green suit and it made her look sallow. Black silk braid crisscrossed her short fitted jacket and excessively flounced skirts. A cream-colored shirtwaist was beneath. Lace frothed from the collar and cuffs. Francesca knew that Sarah was oblivious to her appearance and to fashion in general, and she knew also that Mrs. Channing ordered her daughter’s clothes. While Francesca applauded disinterest in fashion in general, almost every time she first saw Sarah, she winced. Sarah was small and delicate and the gowns she wore simply overpowered her. Francesca wondered
now if she might convince her sister to take Sarah shopping, as Connie had the most elegant taste in clothes.