Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (9 page)

“LeFarge?” Bragg asked. “Is this the man to whom you owe money?”

“Yes.” He was grim and he fell silent.

“Do you wish to press charges?” Bragg asked.

“Absolutely not, for then I should undoubtedly wind up dead!” Evan exclaimed.

Bragg glanced at Francesca, who pleaded with him silently now to back off. She could not tell him that she was
going to Hart to borrow enough money to appease LeFarge. He would be very angry indeed.

Bragg faced Evan. “Other than LeFarge, who are your enemies?”

“I have no enemies,” he said.

“Are you sure you cannot think of someone who might be so angry with you that he would taunt you in this way—by striking at those women dear to you?”

“No! Is that what you are thinking? That some madman who hates me is striking at women I care for? For if that is so, then Bartolla is in danger, as are Fran and Connie!” He now paled.

Francesca faced Bragg. “Before Miss Conway was strangled, just after Sarah’s studio was vandalized, I wondered if the vandal were a young woman jilted by Evan and perhaps so maddened with jealousy and rage that she had struck out at Sarah. But now that theory must be dismissed.”

“I agree,” Bragg said. “The killer is a man. I cannot imagine a woman being able to strangle another woman, Francesca. Not with the force and strength used to asphyxiate Miss Conway.”

Evan cried out. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking. A muffled sob escaped.

Francesca rushed to sit protectively beside him. She looked at Bragg. “We are overtaxing him. He is injured and in grief.”

Bragg nodded. “We can continue this another time. Hopefully something will occur to Evan, a name or face of someone who was after Miss Conway, or someone who has been loitering about her flat.”

Evan did not respond. He lay back more deeply against his pillows, dropping his hands. Tears stained his cheeks. “You must find the bastard who did this!”

Francesca fussed with the pillows. “We will,” she vowed.

“If only we had not fought so bitterly last week,” he said hoarsely, in more anguish.

Francesca stiffened with dread.

“You fought?” Bragg asked. “With Miss Conway?”

Evan nodded, clearly briefly at a loss for speech. Then he said, “The last time I saw her, she would not even speak to me.”

Francesca wanted to tell him not to say anything else. She was getting a very bad feeling indeed. She leaned close, murmuring, “Evan. No.”

But Bragg said, “What was the nature of your argument?”

Evan was grim. “I ended our affair. You see, I am rather taken with someone else, and it wasn’t fair to Gracie to continue on as if nothing had changed, when I was no longer in love with her.”

Francesca was in despair.

Bragg said, “And she was angry with the breakup?”

“Furious. She cried, she threw things, and she cried again. It was extremely difficult and unpleasant,” he added.

Francesca could no longer stand it. “Don’t say anything else!” she cried, leaping to her feet.

He blinked at her. “Why ever not? It’s the truth, Fran!”

“Because someone might think you decided to get rid of your unwanted mistress, Evan!”

He understood and blanched.

Francesca faced Bragg with hands on her hips. “Which we both know he would never do,” she said defensively.

“You and I do know that,” Bragg said. “But the world does not.”

“Bragg, Evan was attacked by LaFarge’s thugs on Monday afternoon. Grace Conway was murdered Tuesday evening. So let the world leap to erroneous conclusions if it will!”

Bragg said slowly, “Actually, the coroner has stated that Miss Conway has been dead for some time.”

At first she didn’t understand. “What?”

“In case you did not notice, Miss Neville’s apartment was frigidly cold.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. Then, “When does he think Miss Conway was murdered?”

“Twenty-four to thirty-six hours before her body was found by Mr. Bennett.”

Her mind raced. “Bennett found her at half past seven on Tuesday night.”

“That’s correct,” Bragg said, and they stared at each other.

It was Evan who spoke up from the bed. “Which means I could have murdered her before I was attacked on Monday afternoon.”

Bragg turned. “Yes. Miss Conway was apparently murdered sometime between Monday morning and Monday night.”

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY 19, 1902—NOON

T
HERE HAD BEEN A
time when it had been easy to get up in the morning, to bathe, eat a slice of toast, take some tea, dress. It felt like it had been years ago, the life of another, different woman. Now, her morning routine had become a vast, tiring chore, one difficult to accomplish and complete. As Connie started downstairs in the home that had been a wedding present from her father, she was stunned to realize that it had only been a month ago that she had been a happily married woman. Now, the hurt she carried with her night and day continued to weigh her down and remind her that she should have never trusted Neil.

He was the last person she would have ever dreamed would hurt her.

Neil. His handsome face filled her mind, but his turquoise eyes were accusing. Panicked, she shoved his image aside. He was the traitor to their marriage, he was the one who had lied and committed adultery, and she was the one suffering now.

Connie did not know what to do. Other women would look graciously the other way, pretend all was well, and continue on as if nothing dire had happened. That was her mother’s advice. Connie knew she must continue on, somehow, yet she knew she simply wasn’t strong enough to do so. And that left her in a terrible dilemma, because
divorce
was simply not a part of her vocabulary.

She continued downstairs, clad in a dusky blue skirt that she had never liked, clasping the smooth wood banister. Their home was a magnificent one, just around the block from her parents’ mansion, on Madison Avenue and 62d Street. It had four stories, vaulted ceilings, marble fireplaces, and two guest suites. It had been built during the year of their engagement, an engagement that had happened within weeks of their first meeting and Neil’s whirlwind courtship. Connie no longer knew what to think of her memories. Once, she had treasured each and every one. Once, she had known that Neil had fallen in love with her just as she had with him. Now, she wondered. Their marriage was a typical one; he was an impoverished British lord, she a wealthy American heiress. Perhaps he had never loved her at all. Perhaps he had married her for her money and she had been so foolish as to think his gallantry was love.

Connie brushed several tears aside as she crossed the ground floor. She felt fairly certain that she had a luncheon that day, but she intended to cancel it. She knew she must continue on with her girlfriends and the wives of Neil’s associates—she knew it as surely as if Julia had insisted she do so. But how could she? The whole city knew of Neil’s affair. She simply could not smile over grilled sea bass at the Hotel Astor, and pretend that nothing was wrong. And she was tired of the almost gleeful looks on the other ladies’ faces. Fran had once told Connie that her marriage was the envy of society; she had already known that quite a few of her friends adored her husband. She knew that if, God forbid, anything had ever happened to her, Neil would not remain a bachelor for long.

She heard the girls then. Charlotte was laughing and Lucinda
was howling in protest. Connie smiled. Her heart warmed. And for one moment, as she listened to the girls, she forgot about Neil, and the pain of his betrayal faded; for one instant, she was Connie Cahill Montrose again, a vibrant, beautiful happy woman with a perfect husband, a perfect marriage, a perfect life.

Connie hurried into the family room, a small, cozy parlor where she often read to the girls while Neil listened and browsed through a newspaper.

Her two daughters, the one three and precocious, the other just eight months old, were both on the floor. Charlotte was playing with her dolls and mercilessly teasing the howling Lucinda. Mrs. Partridge, their nanny, was scolding Charlotte, but she was ignoring the tall governess. She was as stubborn as her Aunt Fran.

“Charlotte, that isn’t fair,” Connie said swiftly, hurrying forward. “You must share your dolls with your sister.” She knelt beside them both.

Charlotte leaped up to wrap her arms tightly around Connie’s neck. “Mommy, Mommy! Mommy, Mommy!” she cried.

Connie hugged her back and thought, aghast,
Dear God, in my grief I have been neglecting my daughters
! It was one thing to cancel luncheons and teas, to beg off evening affairs, to avoid her husband, and quite another to have become careless with her own children, whom she treasured more than life itself. “Darling, you are squeezing every drop of air from my lungs; I can hardly breathe,” she said gently.

Charlotte released her. “How beautiful you look!” she cried, as if surprised. “How pretty your dress is! Mommy, you aren’t sick anymore? Daddy said you were sick. He said we must allow you to sleep, that we must be very quiet. That we mustn’t disturb you!”

Connie bit her lip, filled with guilt and moved to tears. The pain returned—she could imagine Neil softly telling the girls how to behave for their mother’s sake. He would have Charlotte on his lap, explaining very seriously what she must and must not do. Then he would address Lucinda as
if she understood his every word, which of course she did not. But Lucinda would have gurgled happily anyway. Both girls adored their father.

How had it come to this? Their life had been so perfect, once!

“Mommy? Don’t cry,” Charlotte whispered, tugging at her skirts.

Connie sat fully down on the floor, Charlotte crawling quickly onto her lap. “Darling, I am not crying; I merely have dust in my eye.” She smiled brightly. “What shall we do today, sweetheart?”

“Will you take us to the park, then? Or can we go shopping? Can you buy me a new doll? Or a bonnet with a red ribbon?” Charlotte asked eagerly.

Connie laughed and it felt good. Although Charlotte resembled Connie exactly, with her perfect oval face, fine features, and bright blue eyes, and she was platinum blond, a shade or two lighter than her mother, she was so much like Francesca in character. Charlotte’s nature was a demanding and curious one. It had never ceased to amaze Connie that she had such a bold and clever daughter.

“I will take both of you shopping,” Connie decided, as it was too cold to play in the park. The idea of dressing up the girls and taking them to Lord & Taylor became distinctly appealing. However, the evening that loomed ahead worried her—they always had plans; they always went out. Recently Connie had been begging off with a migraine. “Mrs. Partridge? Do you have any idea what plans my husband has made for this evening?”

“I think he said something about a birthday ball,” the nanny responded, smiling at her. And Connie realized she saw relief in the governess’s eyes.

Connie stood, dismayed. A ball was an endless affair. She did not want to go—she had no intention of going—Neil could attend without her. He had been attending most functions these days alone. The birthday must be Letitia Hardwick’s. Letitia was a good friend, and once upon a time Connie had adored balls. Now she paused. Letitia was a very
sultry brunette who frankly admired Neil. She had told Connie many times how lucky she was to be married to such a man. Letitia’s husband was older, unattractive, and severe. Connie was suddenly afraid.

She was afraid that Letitia would try to seduce Neil behind her back.

She told herself not to be absurd. Letitia was her friend. On the other hand, her only real friend was Fran, and Connie suspected but did not know for a fact that Letitia already had had several affairs.

“Connie,” Neil said from behind her, surprise in his tone.

She stiffened. All of the joy she had been feeling vanished. There was dread and dismay, but there was also hope.

She turned and intended to smile, but her frozen facial muscles would not respond. Yet her heart quickened treacherously. She would always find him handsome. No one was more attractive than he.

But he was not noble. He had only pretended to be.

Neil was smiling at her, but his expression was strained and there was worry and anxiety in his gaze. “You look wonderful,” he said.

“Good morning,” Connie said evenly. “I hadn’t realized you were home.”

Disappointment covered his features. She stiffened, because she knew him so well and she knew her cold manner was hurting him. But this was what he deserved. Wasn’t it? “This is a wonderful surprise,” he said huskily. “How glad I am to see you. Are you feeling better?” he asked. He had shoved his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, as if he did not know what to do with them.

“Actually, I do feel better.” She smiled grimly, fortifying herself against him.

“That is wonderful,” he said, clearly meaning it. He smiled at her, but uncertainly. “Did you have breakfast yet? Can I order you some toast and tea?”

“I’m not hungry,” Connie said flatly. And she looked her husband in the eye, daring him to dispute her.

A silence fell.

“Mommy, we had pancakes this morning! They were so delicious!” Charlotte cried, tugging on Connie’s hand but glancing anxiously back and forth between her parents.

Connie bit her lip, realizing that her daughter was fully aware of the tension between her and Neil. She bent down. “You know what, darling? I would love some of Cook’s pancakes—with maple syrup, too.”

“I’ll tell Cook to make you a fine breakfast, Lady Montrose,” Mrs. Partridge said with a smile.

“Thank you,” Neil told her.

Charlotte now ran to Neil. “Daddy will have a second breakfast with you, Mommy,” she announced.

Connie tensed. “I’m sure your father has business affairs to attend to.”

Charlotte’s expression became mulish. “No, he doesn’t. He’s having breakfast with you. Isn’t that right, Daddy?” She turned and gave her father an amazingly significant look for a child of three.

Connie could hardly believe it, but her little daughter was playing matchmaker.