Deadly Illusions (8 page)

Evan stared, his forehead creased. “Fran, it is over?” Doubt filled his tone.

She knew she should not have raised the subject. “He broke it off with her when I accepted his proposal.”

Evan spoke with care. “What I love most about you is your loyalty and trust.”

“What does that mean?” she asked with dread.

“Fran, I don't know how to say this, but he keeps her still!”

She stiffened. “If you mean she continues to live in his house, the house he bought for her, I know that. He promised her six months and will live up to that agreement. But he stopped seeing her the day I accepted his proposal. I happen to know that for a fact—I was spying on him with Daisy when he told her he would be faithful, Evan. And Daisy even admitted he no longer sees her now that he is engaged.”

Evan laughed, visibly relieved. “I am so pleased! I did not know.” Then he sobered. “But Fran, everyone thinks she remains his mistress. It is unwise for him to allow her to live in that house.”

Francesca stared. “Do you mean that society assumes Calder has a mistress, in spite of his engagement to me?” she cried in dismay.

“Yes, I do.”

She gaped, and then she was furious. “But it's not true! Is that really what everyone says?”

He sighed and took her hand. “I'm afraid that it is the obvious conclusion to be drawn. And why is Hart being so honorable with such a woman?”

She pulled free. “He is quite noble, Evan, I have learned that in the few months since we met. He gave his word and he is keeping it.” Now she really began to worry. “If Father learns of this, we are through! He dislikes the match enough as it is.”

“I agree with you,” Evan said. Then, ruefully, he added, “I am sorry to be the one to burst your bubble, Fran.”

She walked away, still angry but also somewhat mortified. “They are all gossips and hypocrites,” she huffed.

“Many of them are. Is that why you look so worried? Because Daisy still resides in that house?”

She slowly faced him and did not speak.

He stared for a long moment. “Francesca?”

“I am such a fool,” she whispered. And she felt tearful again. “I think I have fallen in love with Hart, Evan. What will I do?”

He quickly came forward, taking her hands. “But that is wonderful. You will marry for love! As you, of all people, should, Fran. And Hart—well—” he smiled “—I think he has finally found his match.”

She pursed her lips and it was a moment before she could speak. “Even if I am his match intellectually, I am not half as lovely as Daisy or the other women he has been with.”

He was incredulous. “Is that what is bothering you?”

“Yes…no. I am in love with a dissolute man, Evan. How will I manage to avoid a broken heart?”

Evan was silent for a moment. Then he put his arm around her and guided her to the sofa, where they both sat. “Well, if anyone can answer this question, I suppose it is me. I certainly qualify, do I not?”

She knew that he referred to his own womanizing ways. She nodded.

“I won't lie to you, Fran. You may be in for heartbreak and sorrow. But on the other hand, there is a saying, and it is said for a reason. Every dog has its day. Hart would not be the first rake to be reformed by a good woman.”

For a long moment she stared, terribly desperate for reassurance. “What do you really think?” she finally asked.

He was grim. “I like Hart. I think he is very fond of you. But…he is the most jaded man in town. I can't help but worry about the future—the way that Father does.”

She nodded, hating what he had said.

He said, “If you break this off, though, you will never know what might have been.”

Francesca looked at him. “I don't want to break anything off.”

“Then don't. Give him the benefit of the doubt. So far he has treated you with the utmost respect.”

That was true. She nodded, feeling a bit better. “And he has never even considered marrying anyone until he met me,” she added.

“That is true, and it does speak volumes.” Evan smiled again and stood. “I have to get back to work. Is that why you called?” He became teasing. “To ask your black-sheep older brother for his questionable advice?”

She also rose, relieved to change the subject. “Actually, no. I came to tell you about the case I am on, because I am just a bit worried about Maggie.”

His reaction was instantaneous. “Is Maggie in danger? Are the children in danger?” he demanded.

Francesca was so surprised by his vehement tone that she blinked. “I don't know. I hope not. Have you read about the Slasher, Evan?”

His eyes widened impossibly. “Damn it, Francesca, get to the point! Is Maggie in any way involved with the Slasher?”

She touched him. “Calm down. She is not involved with the Slasher. There was a third victim on Monday, and she died. She also lived two doors from Maggie. I merely want Maggie to be cautious. I suggested that she and the children stay with us next Monday, as we suspect the Slasher will adhere to his pattern and strike again then.”

Evan was quite pale. Then he said grimly, “I hate the circumstances she lives in! How can she raise those children in such a hovel? Before I walked out on my fortune, I had wanted to get her and the children situated in a better area. But it was
not my place and she is so proud, I knew she would refuse. Now I have no funds. Francesca, it is simply intolerable for her to live in that slum.” His blue eyes blazed.

His passionate outburst amazed her. “Evan, I know you are fond of the Kennedy children, but is there something more? Are…are you more than fond of Maggie herself?” Francesca heard herself boldly ask, in real confusion.

And he was clearly startled. He backed up. “
What?
I mean, of course I am fond of Mrs. Kennedy. How could I not be? She is a wonderful woman, so kind, so compassionate, so caring. And my God, she has raised those children on her own, working herself almost to death to give them a good home. But what, exactly, are you suggesting?” His disbelief grew. “Surely you are not suggesting some kind of romantic attachment on my part?”

“I don't know,” Francesca said carefully.

He laughed in disbelief and walked away, then began to pace in consternation.

Francesca watched him carefully. Was it possible that Evan did have a romantic attachment but that he refused to admit it, even to himself?

He turned. “I want her to move uptown, now. I will speak with Mother and make certain there is no issue.”

Francesca felt certain that Evan cared far more than he was admitting. But he was also very involved with the countess, so she did not know what to really think. “She is proud, as you have said. She dislikes charity, which we both know. She isn't even certain she will move uptown on Monday, Evan. I doubt she will pack up and go today.”

He glared. “Yes she will,” he said. “I am taking the afternoon off—to hell with everything. She will not refuse me—you watch and see.”

Francesca began to smile. It had become clear which way the wind blew. Carefully she hid her smile and her satisfaction as she watched her brother storm from the room.

 

S
OMEHOW, MOSTLY THROUGH
tearful pleading, she had gained permission from her supervisor to leave work an hour early. All day, Gwen had thought about little other than her daughter as she poured tallow into mold after mold. She had not wanted Bridget to miss another day of school, so she had dropped her there that morning. Within five minutes of leaving her daughter on the public building's front steps, she had begun to worry.

A killer was on the loose. He was in their neighborhood. Bridget's school was only a few blocks from where the killer had last struck. Would Bridget be safe in school? Gwen thought so. But she did not want her daughter setting one foot out on the street by herself—not after school, not before school, not ever. If anything happened to her daughter, she would die. Bridget was her life.

Standing in the aisle of the horse-drawn omnibus, Gwen clung to the safety strap, surrounded by strangers. Bridget had already walked home from school and she prayed that she was safe. Maybe they shouldn't have left their home in Ireland. With everything that had happened in the month and a half since their arrival in America, Ireland seemed far safer than New York City, which had become cold and lonely, a dark and threatening place.

She bit her lip so she would not cry. There was no going back and she knew it. They were trapped here, in the merciless city, trapped in poverty, hopelessness and, now, real danger.

Briefly she closed her eyes as she swayed in tandem to the rocking omnibus. Briefly, she saw the vast, manicured green lawns that swept up to the imposing, stone-gray palatial residence where she had once been employed. For one moment, it was as if she stood at the foot of the long, winding, graveled driveway, watching the gardeners tend the various blooms. And in that moment, she watched the master of the house appear on the wide, flat front steps, a tall, dark man in a riding coat, breeches and high boots—a handsome man who had never smiled in the entire first year she had worked there.

Her heart still ached with the memories and it was an ache that would never go away.

Gwen inhaled hard, forcing the past far away, and that was when she felt eyes boring into her back.

She straightened, her grip on the safety strap tightening as the bus lurched to a stop to discharge a passenger. The feeling of being watched did not disappear. It became hard to breathe. Very slowly, she turned around.

But the men seated behind her on the crowded bus were reading dailies. She looked down the aisle at the other standing passengers. No one was looking her way, no one at all. The back doors swung closed and the omnibus lurched forward.

Glancing wildly around, she thought,
I must be losing my mind.

On the sidewalk, he watched the bus disappearing.

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 5:00 p.m.

F
RANCESCA SMILED AS
her cab halted in front of the building where Gwen O'Neil lived. Bragg's black roadster was parked on the street, a conspicuous sight amidst the drays and wagons on the block. Bragg stood leaning against the hood, his hands in the pockets of his brown wool suit jacket, appearing thoughtful.

As the bay in the traces lowered his head, the driver turned around and opened the small window behind his back. The front seat was elevated and he smiled down at her. “Twenty cents, miss.”

Francesca handed him twenty-five. She reached for the door but Bragg was already opening it. “Am I late?” she asked, unable to help being cheerful. They were working together again. She and Bragg made a fine investigative team—they had the track record to prove it—and now, why, they would solve this case in no time.

He smiled back at her. “I only just arrived.” He helped her to the street. Francesca regarded him closely and saw that the dark cloud he had been under that morning had lifted. She was relieved. She felt certain it was because Leigh Anne had gone home from the hospital.

As they entered the building, he asked, “You look pleased. What did you learn today? I take it there must be something new.”

“I think my brother has strong feelings for Maggie Kennedy.” The words just tumbled out.

He stopped and looked at her.

“I am not playing matchmaker,” she said defensively. Then she sighed. “And I know that heirs do not marry seamstresses. Still, I am certain he cares quite a bit for her.”

“Try not to get involved,” he said mildly. He gestured for her to precede him up the narrow stairs.

“Is that all you have to say?” she cried. “You have seen them together. What do you think?”

“He is not currently an heir,” he said, pausing on the second-floor landing.

She met his gaze and their glances held. Well, that was to the point. Then she forced herself to stop thinking about her brother and Maggie. “Shall I brief you before we go inside?”

He nodded. “Please.”

She quickly told him all that she had learned from Francis O'Leary, including the dream she had had and her uncertainty over whether or not the Slasher had called her a faithless bitch.

Bragg leaned against the wall, reflective.

“I would tend to believe that it was just a dream, as there does not seem to be anything faithless about her,” Francesca said.

“You are supposing that he knew her and deliberately chose her as his victim. He might have a vendetta against all young, pretty women, Francesca, based on some experience he has had with one particular woman. He might only vaguely know his victims and they might not know him at all.”

“I have also thought of that. It would be helpful if the killer knew his victims and chose them deliberately.” She was grim. “If he randomly attacks women, how will we ever find him?”

“I have assigned extra men to patrol this ward. I have expanded the two square blocks in which all the victims were found to six square blocks.”

“That is a good idea, but that will not change the fact that
we need to knock on doors. Someone must have seen someone suspicious lurking about last Monday near here.”

“I hope so,” he said. “This case will involve a lot of legwork.”

That was her cue. She smiled at him. “And what should we do about Francis O'Leary's missing husband?”

He smiled in return. “Find him?”

“I was hoping you would say that!” she cried. “Of course, that will involve even more legwork and we may never locate him. He could be dead, for all we know.”

“When you look at the current case file, you will see that Newman began a preliminary search for Thomas O'Leary. He interviewed his friends, co-workers and employer. No one had any idea that he would abruptly walk out on his wife or his life. I should not be surprised if we learned he was dead—or if we never learned where he went and where he is now.”

She agreed wholeheartedly. “Rick, why would a man who abandons his wife come back to assault her, and then assault a similar woman before murdering Margaret Cooper? I should love to interview O'Leary, but he is not high on my list of suspects.”

With some fond amusement, he said, “And is there a list of suspects?”

She rolled her eyes. “It is a list of zero.”

He laughed. Then, “I am truly pleased to be on another case with you, Francesca.”

“So am I,” she said with a grin. “Perhaps Joel has discovered something useful. So, is Leigh Anne home? The girls must be ecstatic.”

His smile vanished. “She is undoubtedly walking through the front door as we speak.” The moment he spoke, he grimaced, clearly displeased with his choice of words. He knocked abruptly on Gwen O'Neil's door.

She was stunned. What was this? Why wasn't Bragg with her? Why wasn't he ecstatic? “Perhaps you should be home as
well. I can interview Bridget by myself, Rick, and relay all the pertinent information to you later.”

Not turning, he knocked again. “She is aware of my schedule,” he said.

There was no mistaking the tense note in his tone or the rigidity in his back. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Is every thing all right?” she asked carefully, almost wishing she had not brought up this obviously painful topic.

He glanced sidelong at her. “Yes.”

Francesca did not know what to think, but clearly, Bragg did not wish to discuss his wife. She knew she must respect his wish for privacy, but what had happened? Everything was
not
all right, any fool could discern that. Then she realized there was still no answer to the knock.

“No one is home. We will wait,” Bragg said flatly.

Rather relieved to be distracted from Bragg's personal life, Francesca stepped past him and rapped smartly on the door. “Mrs. O'Neil?” she called. “Bridget? It is I, Francesca Cahill.”

Bragg smiled a little at her. “You remain the terrier with the bone. No one is home, Francesca.”

She started to try again, when the door suddenly opened and Bridget appeared there, white-faced and shaken. There was no mistaking her fear. “My mum's not home yet,” she whispered.

“We have scared you!” Francesca cried, putting her arm around the pretty red-haired child. “I am so sorry!”

Bridget's eyes filled with tears. “I thought it might be the Slasher.”

“You are right to exercise caution,” Bragg said as they stepped inside.

“The Slasher does not knock,” Francesca told her, guiding her to the table. Then she realized that they did not know that, not at all, as they did not know how he got into the first two
women's flats. Perhaps he
had
knocked on Margaret Cooper's door, only to con his way inside. She glanced at Bragg and clearly, he was reading her mind. “Did you go to school today?” she asked.

Bridget nodded, still trembling. “I'm not coughing today.”

“That's wonderful. Bridget, can we ask you some questions?”

The small red-haired child stared anxiously, even suspiciously, at her. “What kind of questions?”

“You know that Mr. Bragg is the police commissioner?”

Bridget nodded, glancing his way.

“We are trying to find the man who murdered Margaret Cooper,” Francesca said.

“I know,” Bridget returned. And then tears filled her eyes. “Why did we have to come here? I hate America!”

Francesca shared a glance with Bragg and sat down beside her, taking her small hands in hers. “I know how hard this must be for you, leaving your home behind. But one day, this will be your home, too.”

“It will never be my home. I hate it here! I wish we could go home, but we can't, I know that.” She wiped her eyes with anger.

The reason why the O'Neils could not return to Ireland was not her concern and had nothing to do with the case. But Francesca was curious, and past investigations had taught her never to leave any stone unturned. Before she could get the words out, Bragg said, “Why can't you return to Ireland, Bridget?”

Bridget looked at him. “Because Papa hates us.”

Francesca's eyebrows lifted and bells shrieked alarmingly in her mind. “I'm sure your father doesn't hate you,” she said.

Bridget crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her mouth hard together.

“Why would your father hate you?” Bragg asked quietly.

She shrugged, looking away, clearly determined not to respond.

“Where is your father?” Francesca tried.

Bridget glanced sullenly at her. “In jail.”

Francesca bit her lip and quickly exchanged a glance with Bragg.

“Is he in a prison in Ireland? Or is he in the city?” Bragg asked quietly.

“He's in Limerick.”

Francesca was disappointed. Briefly, she thought they might have had a lead.

Then Bridget started to cry. “He's still supposed to be there. But today, after school, I thought I saw him across the street!”

Francesca stood, staring at Bragg, who stared back. “Darling,” she said, clasping Bridget's shoulder, “you think your father is here, in the city?”

“I swear I saw him!” Bridget was in tears. “But if Mama finds out, she will be more afraid than she is now!”

Francesca knelt before the child, clasping both of her hands. “Why do you think your father hates you? Why was he in jail? And why would your mother be afraid if your father were here in the city?”

She bit her lip. Finally she whispered, “Mama says I am not allowed to speak of it.”

“This is a police matter,” Francesca said gently. “You cannot withhold information from the police. It is against the law.”

“I can go to jail?” she gasped.

“No one is sending you to jail,” Francesca said firmly. “But surely you wish to obey the law?”

Bridget nodded glumly. Then, in a rush, she spoke. “Papa tried to murder Lord Randolph!”

Francesca stood. She didn't have to ask. Bragg said, “Who is Lord Randolph?”

Bridget covered her face in her hands. “The man Mama loves.”

 

A
S HE TOOK THE
steps in the narrow stairwell two at a time, Evan Cahill was well aware that his heart was racing. He could not shake the conversation he had just had with Francesca from his mind. But his leaping pulse had nothing to do with romantic matters. He felt sure of it. He was very fond of Maggie and the children, but his adrenaline was the result of fear and determination, nothing more.

Still, he had not visited her and the children in some time and he was eager to see them all. He was equally aware of that.

He paused before her door, noticing that it was freshly painted a cheerful shade of blue. As he finger-combed some pieces of hair back into place, he wondered if she had painted the door herself. He hoped that Joel had done it for her. She worked herself to the bone as it was. The last time he had been there, the brown paint on the door had been flaking and peeling away from the wood.

He straightened his tie and knocked. As he waited for a response, his heart tightened unmistakably, and then he heard Maggie's voice on the other side of the door. He felt himself smile.

“Paddy, stop. You know we do not open doors until we know who is on the other side,” she scolded.

Paddy was five and a mischievous handful. He looked just like Maggie, except that his red hair was far brighter. “It's Joel,” Paddy cried in protest.

“Probably,” she said. “Who is it?” she then called.

He felt his smile increasing. “Evan Cahill.” An image of her pretty blue eyes filled his mind and he could imagine Paddy pressed against her skirts.

And he felt her surprise and could almost see her hesitate. A moment later the door opened and she stood there in a simple dove-gray skirt and white shirtwaist, her hair swept back into a bun, her eyes wide with surprise. She appeared breathless.

“Hello,” he said. And even as distressed as he was with the
circumstance of the Slasher striking two doors down, he held a paper bag filled with cakes and cookies in his arms. He knew Maggie would refuse a sack of groceries.

Her mouth trembled. “Hello, Mr. Cahill. I…I'm sorry, we were not expecting company. The flat is a mess!” And as she spoke, Paddy cried out in delight and tackled him about the knees, hugging him there.

“Mrs. Kennedy, please do not stand on formality with me. I was in the neighborhood and I thought to bring the children some treats.” He made no move to step inside but he could see from the corner of his eye that the flat was as clean as a whistle and as tidy as always. He did not know how she fed and housed her four children so properly. His admiration for her knew no bounds. “Paddy, my boy, if you do not loosen up I may keel over.” He was joking and he winked at Maggie.

But she did not smile now. “Please, come in,” she whispered nervously.

As he did, Mathew whooped and barreled over to hug him, too. Evan set the bag down on the kitchen table, draped in a blue-check tablecloth, and he slapped the seven-year-old on the back. “How are you, buddy?” he asked with a grin.

“Great,” Mathew grinned. “I got an
A
in arithmetic!”

“That's wonderful,” Evan said, meaning it and feeling oddly proud of the child. “And what grades did you receive in reading and writing?”

“Bs,”
Mathew said earnestly, eyes wide. Like Joel, he had midnight-black hair and the dark eyes to match.

“Good job,” Evan said softly, pulling him close for a moment. Then he felt Maggie come to stand behind him and his entire body tensed. Slowly, he released the boy and turned, uncertain now of why he reacted to her so. He felt somewhat breathless.

“I'll put up some tea. Lizzie just went to sleep and Joel is out,” Maggie said, her eyes wide and riveted on him.

He gave up. There was something so pretty about her, and
why deny it? That meant nothing, of course, as he was very involved with Bartolla, whom he would probably one day marry. And Bartolla was the kind of woman he was insanely attracted to—gorgeous, bold and far from innocent. But Maggie was lovely and he had always had an eye for attractive women, so of course he would notice her. But there was something else about her, something he could not put his finger on. In a way, she was like a ray of the purest light.