Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (23 page)

“Does he know Sarah?”

“He said he did not.”

“You doubt him?”

“No. I have no reason to doubt anything that he has said, at this time,” she said thoughtfully.

Suddenly Captain Shea was knocking on the door. His eyes were wide. “C’mish, sir! I think you might want to come downstairs, right now!”

Bragg rushed forward, Francesca following, more than curious. “What is it, Shea?” Bragg asked.

“Thomas Neville is at reception, shouting for his sister.”

Bragg strode through the door, Francesca running to catch up with him. They exchanged glances, ignoring the elevator, as the cage was clearly on the ground floor. He took her arm as they hurried down the concrete steps, Shea on their heels. “Well, this is a positive development,” Francesca said breathlessly.

They hit the ground floor landing, where they could see past the elevator cage and into the busy reception area, where policemen were booking various crooks and hoods, and where two gentlemen were filing some kind of civilian complaint. Francesca saw Neville instantly, standing alone
at the front desk, pounding his fist on it, O’Malley facing him, apparently trying to calm him. “That’s him!” she cried. “I saw the portrait his sister painted at Hoeltz’s gallery.”

They hurried forward.

Thomas Neville was close to Francesca in age. As in the portrait, he had raven black hair, dark eyes, a large nose, and thin lips. Unlike the portrait, she hadn’t realized he was so tall. He was several inches taller than Bragg, and although his shoulders weren’t narrow, he was as lean as a beanstalk. He was attractive in a distinguished way.

A big man with no eyes and no mouth
.

Francesca shoved Ellie’s voice out of her mind. Ellie had been drunk and hallucinating or dreaming. Besides, Thomas Neville was very tall, but big? That was not a word Francesca would ever use to describe him. He was tall, but thin and gaunt.

“Mr. Neville, may I help you?” Bragg approached, his tone calm.

Neville turned, dark eyes flashing with annoyance. “Who are you?” he snapped.

Bragg extended his hand. “I am the commissioner of police, Rick Bragg.”

That took Neville aback. Then, recovering from his surprise, he said, “I have not seen my sister in days, Commissioner! I have become frantic. I think she may be missing! I had assumed she was very involved in her work—she is an artist—but now there is no possible reason for her not to have come home. I think she has disappeared!” His tone had risen into hysteria.

“Please, be calm,” Bragg said quietly. “We happen to be aware of the fact that Miss Neville is missing.”

Neville inhaled, and he was trembling. Then his gaze narrowed with sudden suspicion. “You are? How do you know she is missing?”

“Her apartment has been the scene of a murder,” Bragg said. “Did you know her neighbor, Miss Conway, the actress?”

“A murder!” Neville stared, blanching. “Who—someone
was murdered in her apartment? But . . . that’s impossible!”

“Miss Conway was found murdered there, Mr. Neville.”

He stared. It was a moment before he spoke. “How—why—how was she murdered in my sister’s flat?”

“We’re not certain,” Bragg said. “Did you know her?”

“I only knew her in passing. We nodded at one another in the hall. She was cold, not like when she was onstage. Cold and unfriendly,” he added.

Francesca stiffened with interest. Cold? Every single person whom they had spoken to said Grace Conway was warm and wonderful and beloved by all.

“Let’s move over to a desk,” Bragg said, his smile friendly, taking Neville’s elbow.

Neville nodded grimly. Then, “I simply cannot believe this,” he said. “Why would anyone murder Miss Conway? And in Mellie’s flat!”

They moved behind the reception counter and into a large back room filled with desks and police clerks at their typewriters. Bragg offered a seat. Neville took it. He had now lost all of his coloring. He appeared rather greenish, in fact. “Please do not tell me that Mellie is in danger,” he begged. “Good God, her disappearance isn’t related to the murder, is it?”

Francesca smiled reassuringly at him. “We hope not. I am Miss Cahill,” she said, handing him her calling card.

His heavy black brows lifted as he read it. He looked up. “Since when do women sleuth?”

“Since I have helped the police solve four very ghastly crimes,” she said, keeping her smile firmly in place.

He handed the card back to her.

“Do keep it. When did you last see your sister, Mr. Neville?”

“Sunday.” He was now abrupt.

“At what time?”

He gave her a dark look. “Why are you asking me?!”

“It is important,” she said softly. “Please, we want to find her as much as you do.”

He sighed. “I last saw her Sunday evening.”

Francesca started, as Melinda Neville had spent Sunday night with Hoeltz—or so the gallery owner claimed. Had she gone over to the gallery after a visit from her brother? Or was one of the two men lying?

Bragg was apparently on the same track. He said, “And what time was that?”

Neville looked at them both. “Does it really matter?”

“Yes, it does,” Bragg said firmly.

“It was about six
P.M.
I had hoped we might share a light supper, but she had other plans.”

Francesca exchanged glances with Bragg. “Other plans?” she asked.

Neville suddenly covered his face with his hands. “She didn’t say. She had other dinner plans.”

“Were Melinda and Grace Conway friends?” Francesca asked after a reflective pause. Didn’t Thomas Neville know about his sister’s love affair? Could he have possibly been oblivious?

“They liked one another immensely,” he said instantly. “Mellie returned from Paris very recently, and somehow, they became bosom buddies. In fact, Mellie met Miss Conway the very day she was moving in. I was helping her with her trunks. They became friendly at once. I actually think they forgot my very presence.” He smiled slightly then, the memory a fond one. “I suppose they had a bit in common, an actress and an artist. God knows Mellie was raised very traditionally, but at heart she was a bohemian.”

“So you approved of her friendship with Miss Conway, even though you did not like the actress yourself?” Francesca asked.

“I was thrilled that she made a friend so quickly!” he exclaimed. “And I did not say I did not like Miss Conway. I did not know her at all. When I was present, she would leave. I doubt we ever exchanged more than a dozen words. But she was all laughter around Mellie.”

Francesca nodded. “I see.” Not that she did. “And Hoeltz? Did you approve of your sister’s friendship with him?”

Neville shot to his feet, flushing now. “Hoeltz? I do not know who you are speaking of,” he said.

He was lying, Francesca was certain of it.

Bragg touched his arm. “Do sit down, Mr. Neville. So you never made the acquaintance of Bertrand Hoeltz?”

Neville did not sit. His cheeks remained red. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Mellie is a good girl. She had nothing to do with Bertrand Hoeltz!”

“So you have met him,” Bragg said.

“They are friends—casually speaking. He is representing her work,” Neville said, his chin up, his posture and tone defensive. “She is my only family, Commissioner. Our mother died when we were children. Our father died a year and a half ago. She is all I have and I am begging you to find her.”

“We shall do our best,” Bragg said, clasping his shoulder. “These questions are necessary, Thomas. Please, do bear with Miss Cahill and me. We are almost done.” He smiled.

Thomas Neville sat down. Now, he looked as if he might weep.

“Do you recall where you were on Monday morning?”

Neville blinked. “Of course I do.”

“And where was that?” Francesca asked quickly.

He turned his gaze upon her. “I work at the Seamen’s Savings Bank on Pearl Street. I am a clerk. I start at nine and finish at five, Monday through Friday,” he said.

Francesca thought about the possibility that Grace Conway could have died before nine Monday morning or after five that evening. Not that she thought Thomas Neville the murderer, but with the sheer poverty of suspects she would add him to their short list. “What time do you leave for work?” she asked.

“At a quarter past eight,” he said, “I take the trolley downtown.”

“Can you think of anyone who might wish to harm Miss Conway?” Bragg asked.

“I told you, I hardly knew her,” Neville said.

“Do you know anyone who might wish to harm your sister?”

“Do you think someone has hurt Mellie?” Neville cried, blanching.

“We don’t know what to think,” Bragg returned evenly.

“Everyone loves Mellie,” her brother said. “Everyone!”

Francesca leaned close. “Not everyone, Mr. Neville. For your sister is missing, and that upon the heels of the murder of her good friend. I think she may have seen something. I think she may have witnessed the killing. I think she may have run away.”

And Thomas Neville’s eyes bulged. “No, no,” he whispered, trembling.

“Think!” Francesca cried. “Do you know of anyone who might wish to kill Miss Conway? Or someone who hated your sister enough to destroy her studio and perhaps even attack Miss Conway accidentally—thinking her to be Mellie?”

“Hoeltz,” he gasped. “Hoeltz hated Mellie with all of his being.”

“What?” Francesca straightened. This was clearly an outright lie.

Tears filled Neville’s eyes. He shook. “She went to him last Sunday night to tell him she was leaving him,” he whispered. “And I could tell how afraid she was.”

F
RIDAY
, F
EBRUARY 21, 1902—11:00 A.M.

B
ARTOLLA
B
ENEVENTE HURRIED THROUGH
the Channing residence and into the salon commonly used for entertaining callers. She had just spent fifteen minutes ironing her hair and reapplying rouge to her cheeks and lips. Clad in a very fitted burgundy jacket, the matching skirt trimmed in dyed fox, a ruby necklace, and matching ear bobs, she felt she looked radiant and her best. The salon doors were wide open. She paused on the threshold for a dramatic effect. It never crossed her mind that she had made her caller wait.

Leigh Anne Bragg had been sitting on a plush velvet sofa, and when she saw Bartolla she smiled and rose gracefully to her feet. The two women had met several years ago in Rome, when Bartolla’s husband had been alive and they had been on their way to their Tuscan villa. Bartolla beamed in return, swept across the room, and the two women embraced. Unfortunately, Leigh Anne was as lovely as she had been the other day when they had last seen each other. Fortunately,
Bartolla was too secure to be envious; it was merely annoying.

“How pretty you look!” Bartolla cried, still smiling. And she knew
pretty
was not a word that did justice to Leigh Anne. She knew the word would grate on the tiny woman’s nerves.

But if Leigh Anne felt insulted, she did not show it. “And you are so beautiful today,” Leigh Anne replied earnestly in her soft, breathless voice. “I love your suit, Bartolla. Please don’t tell me it was sewn in Italy? I should so love to use your seamstress.”

“I’m afraid it was,” Bartolla lied. The ensemble had belonged to one of her dear departed husband’s sisters, who had given it, and many others, to Bartolla when she realized she was too fat to ever wear them again. Bartolla had had them all altered to fit her perfectly. She had saved a fortune yet acquired a couturier wardrobe. And she did not have a seamstress, because her dear departed husband had left her poor and penniless. However, Leigh Anne could not know that.

It was her secret.

The two women sat, arranging their skirts, as the butler wheeled in a tray with tea and cakes. Both women helped themselves to plates of petits fours, which they had no intention of ever eating. “So tell me, Leigh Anne, is New York City agreeing with you?” Bartolla asked with avid curiosity. She was simply dying to know what was happening in the Bragg–Leigh Anne–Francesca love triangle. It was too delicious for words.

Leigh Anne beamed. A pretty flush covered her cheeks, and her emerald-colored eyes sparkled. “I do think so. My husband and I reconciled last night.”

Bartolla almost dropped her cup and saucer. As it was, she spilled tea upon her lap.

Leigh Anne cried out, handing her a gold linen napkin, “Oh, I don’t think it will stain!”

Bartolla wiped the spot, using the moment to recover from her surprise. “That is wonderful news! I am so happy
for you!” She hesitated. “Have you met Francesca Cahill, dear?”

Leigh Anne’s smile faded. “Yes, I did.” She reached out and clasped Bartolla’s hands in hers. “I cannot tell you how I appreciate your letter warning me about her. Had I not come to New York, God only knows what might have happened.”

Bartolla’s smile felt brittle. Yet she had deliberately stirred up the hornets’ nest, never mind that she was genuinely fond of Francesca and did not really like Leigh Anne Bragg at all. But then, Francesca was not a rival. Francesca would never be a rival, and not because she wasn’t beautiful, which she was. But her attention was on politics, charities, and criminal investigations. Except for Bragg—and maybe Hart—she had no interest in men.

Leigh Anne was a very dangerous rival indeed. She was too beautiful, too poised, too elegant, and Bartolla knew she could seduce any man she wished. Fortunately, Leigh Anne’s interest now was her successful and handsome husband.

Bartolla hadn’t been able to resist sending Leigh Anne a warning note. The idea of Leigh Anne returning to New York to rescue her husband before he fell into Francesca’s clutches had been too entertaining. And now, Bartolla could not wait to be entertained.

“Darling, you are one of my best friends!” Bartolla exclaimed. “As much as I adore Francesca—and you know that I do—I simply had to let you know what was happening here in the city before everyone’s curious eyes.”

Leigh Anne smiled gratefully and sipped her tea.

Which annoyed Bartolla even more. “Have the two of you met yet?”

Leigh Anne set her cup down. Then, shocking Bartolla, she picked up a petit four and nibbled briefly on it. “I called on her a few days ago. I am afraid you were right.” She was rueful. “She is extraordinary. At once beautiful, clever, and kind—not to mention a sleuth. It is so understandable that Rick would have feelings for such a woman—considering
we have been apart for four very long years.”