Deadly Kisses (24 page)

“Miss Cahill!” An officer she did not know but recognized came up to her. “The c'mish wants you upstairs. He sent me to find you,” he said breathlessly, and he glanced at his notes. “I called the Cahill house and then the Montrose residence and I was going to go uptown to the Dakotas, where they said you were. He's real eager to see you, miss.”

“What has happened?” she asked quickly.

“He's got the Gillespie family upstairs—they just came in.”

Francesca ran for the stairs, forgetting to thank him and hiking up her skirts as she went up. The Gillespies must have taken a sleeper train last night, she thought in real excitement.

The door to the conference room was open. Obviously Bragg wanted to appear casual and relaxed with the family. He and Newman sat facing the judge, who seemed to have aged a decade since the other day, and his wife, who was a small, pale, blond woman that reminded Francesca of a delicate bird. She clutched a linen handkerchief in her hand and frequently used it to dab at her eyes. Francesca saw that Daisy had resembled her somewhat, and she had certainly inherited her slender frame from her, but she doubted Martha Gillespie had ever been as beautiful as her oldest daughter.

She turned to Daisy's sister and studied her without anyone remarking her presence yet. Lydia, Francesca had learned, was two years younger than Daisy. She had hair that was neither brown nor blond, even, unremarkable features, and a much darker skin tone than her sister. In fact, other than her eyes, which even from this distance she could tell were a pale blue, Francesca saw no resemblance between the two sisters. She wondered at their friendship, then. She knew how difficult it could be growing up with a sibling who was remarkable in any particular way—in this case, being so beautiful. She wondered if Lydia had been jealous of her sister.

Lydia sat rigidly beside her mother, her hands clasped on the table in front of her. Like both of her parents, she seemed very upset.

Bragg noticed her and stood. “Francesca, come in. The judge and his family arrived very early this morning. They just came in to see me.”

Francesca smiled at him and Newman, and then at the judge.
“Good morning, Judge. Thank you for coming—and thank you for bringing Mrs. Gillespie and your daughter.”

He also stood. “Martha, this is the young lady I told you about, the very remarkable sleuth.”

Martha nodded tearfully. “I still can't believe it. I can't believe Honora is dead.”

Francesca glanced at Lydia, who did not move. She looked as if she wished to cry, but she did not. “I am very sorry,” Francesca said. “Daisy was liked by every one and she did not deserve her fate.”

Martha Gillespie shook her head. “How is it possible? How is it possible that she gave up the life she had with us to become what she had? Please tell me, Miss Cahill, because I don't understand.”

“I don't know, but I should like to find out,” Francesca said softly.

The judge muttered, “I had to tell them. I told them on the train last night.”

Francesca wished she had been the one to break the news, so she could have gauged both Martha's and Lydia's reactions. But Daisy's mother certainly seemed grief-stricken and shocked.

Bragg said, “The judge just gave his statement. It is brief and exactly as you described.”

Francesca understood. He claimed to have no knowledge of Honora's whereabouts, until Francesca had appeared in Albany yesterday. She said, “Let's go back to Honora, the fifteen-year-old daughter. Mrs. Gillespie? Were you close to your daughter?”

Martha nodded. “Of course I was. I adored Honora. She was so beautiful and sweet.”

Francesca was skeptical. If her home life had been so happy, why had Daisy left? “And there were family outings? Picnics, ice skating? Family vacations, family gatherings? Supper at home, at least on Sundays?”

Martha looked perplexed. “We went to church every Sunday.
We are Baptist. But my husband works very long, hard hours, and when he is not working, we have social obligations. And no one in my family cares for picnics,” she added.

A picture was emerging, Francesca thought. “So you and the judge went out almost every night.”

“If not, he would work in his study, dining there alone,” Martha said.

“I take each and every case very seriously,” Gillespie said harshly. “What is this about?”

Francesca just smiled reassuringly at him. “Did you take Honora shopping?”

Martha was taken aback. “We had a modiste come to the house to make both of the girls' wardrobes.” She started to cry. “It feels like only yesterday. How could she be gone—and this way!”

Lydia said softly, “Honora liked horses.”

Francesca turned her attention to Daisy's somber sister. “She did?”

“Yes. We would ride through the fields almost every day, in the afternoon.” Lydia held her gaze. “And some times we took lunch. Sometimes we shared a picnic.”

Francesca sat down besides her. Lydia's message was clear. Her sister had liked picnics, but their mother had not known. “Do you know why she ran away? Had she become unhappy before she left?” she asked softly, speaking only to Lydia now.

Lydia glanced at her parents. “I don't know why she left.” A tear fell. “I don't know if she was unhappy.”

“Were you close?” Francesca asked gently. If the two girls had spent so little time with their parents, if they had ridden together every day, she suspected they had been good friends.

Lydia nodded; and another tear fell.

“Perhaps there was a boy, a young man that she liked?”

“There were no boys,” Lydia said hoarsely. “I wish she were here!”

Francesca glanced at Bragg. He said, “Did she tell you that she was going to run away, Lydia?”

“No!” Lydia was both adamant and aghast at the thought, and Francesca believed her.

Bragg turned to Martha. “Did you have any idea that your daughter was unhappy enough to leave home?”

Martha was pale. “No, of course not.”

Gillespie said, his cheeks pink, “She was a very happy young lady, sir.”

Francesca had the oddest sense that the Gillespies were not being entirely honest with her. “Happy young ladies do not run away from home, Your Honor.”

Gillespie jumped to his feet. “How dare you! What does any of this have to do with my daughter's murder?”

Francesca turned to Lydia. “Did she write you, Lydia? Did she tell you where she was after she had left? Did you know that she was here in the city?”

Lydia hugged herself, her gaze downcast. “No.”

Francesca knew a lie when she saw one. Lydia had either heard from her sister or had known where her sister was. “You have missed her, haven't you?”

Lydia nodded, closing her eyes briefly. “She was my sister. I loved her.”

Francesca allowed that statement to resonate. She and Bragg shared a look and he spoke.

“Judge Gillespie. Did you know Honora had become Daisy Jones? Did you know she was in New York City before Miss Cahill spoke with you?”

The judge stood, his chair rocking back loudly. “Of course not! What are you insinuating? That I knew where my daughter was for all of this time? That I knew the life she had chosen, what she had become, and I did nothing to bring her home? Sir, I protest.”

Francesca inhaled, and beside her, she felt Bragg's tension, too. After a moment, quietly, he said, “I apologize, but it was a
question I had to ask. And it is a question I must ask your wife, as well.”

Martha stared, horrified. “No,” she whispered. “I did not know. Richard told me yesterday, when he told us Honora was dead.”

Bragg nodded. “We may have more questions for you, but we are done for now. I would like to ask you to stay in the city for a few days, in case we have a new lead.”

“Are you going to find Honora's killer?” the judge demanded.

“We will find him,” Bragg said softly. “Have no fear of that.”

“Is it true that you have detained a suspect? I glimpsed a headline on my way over here, but I have yet to read the paper,” Gillespie said.

Francesca grew still.

“We have not made an arrest, and I am not convinced the suspect in custody is the guilty party,” Bragg said.

Francesca faced him. What did he mean, the
suspect in custody?
Hart had been released, hadn't he?

“Who is he?” Gillespie demanded.

Bragg hesitated. “His name is Calder Hart. He had kept Daisy as his mistress for a brief time in February,” he said carefully.

“I know that name,” the judge cried. “He's a wealthy man, here in the city.”

“He's my brother, sir,” Bragg said, stunning Francesca.

The Gillespies cried out in shock.

“He is not the killer,” Francesca said firmly. “And the police will do their job.”

“This is rich! You have placed your own brother in custody for the murder of my daughter! What kind of investigation is this? Of course you claim he did not do it!” Gillespie stormed out. His wife and daughter followed.

But then, Lydia glanced back into the room—at Francesca.
Her expression was odd. It was almost desperate, like some kind of plea. And then they were gone.

Bragg rubbed his jaw.

“That was very brave of you,” Francesca said. “What do you think?”

“It appears that the entire family is grieving and that no one has a clue as to why Daisy—I mean Honora—would leave home the way that she did,” Bragg said.

Francesca was impatient. “Rick, I still think Gillespie knew all about Daisy and her life here in the city. I cannot shake the feeling.”

“For once, I am not convinced that you are right.”

Francesca sighed. “Martha Gillespie may have been left in the dark. However, I also think Lydia had been in touch with her sister. Either that, or she somehow knew where she was.”

“On that point, you may be correct,” Bragg said.

Francesca fell silent, mulling over the case. Finally, she said, “What did you think of that look Lydia just gave me before they left? It seemed so hopeless—it almost seemed like a cry for help. What did that mean?”

“Yes, it
was
very hopeless. But that might be due to her grief.”

He could be right, Francesca thought. Her mind veered to Hart. “Rick, didn't you release Hart? He wasn't in the tank when I came in.”

Bragg did not reply. Her heart sank. “Rick?”

“I cannot treat him any differently than I would any one else! Good God, Francesca, I have the Progressives in this city breathing down my neck, led by the clergy, and your father's friends. And then there is the press.”

“What are you saying?”

He turned away. “He has been arrested for Daisy's murder.”

Thursday, June 5, 1902—2:00 p.m.

L
EIGH
A
NNE STUDIED THE
seamstress Rick had recommended, her gaze very intent. Apparently Maggie Kennedy had been friends with the girls' mother and was also a friend of Francesca Cahill's. She had also heard that Maggie had been attacked during Francesca's last case. The redhead seemed pleasant enough, Leigh Anne thought. She had a gentle way about her and surprisingly good manners, which Leigh Anne sensed she worked hard at. She was rather pretty, too, although sadness seemed to shadow her remarkable blue eyes and her smiles seemed forced. Leigh Anne intended for her to make a wardrobe for the girls. It was greatly needed.

At first she had been dismayed by Rick's recommendation. She hadn't wanted someone else from the girls' past entering their lives, not when they still did not know what their uncle really wanted. But Rick had mentioned that Maggie, a widow, had lost her factory job, yet had to support four children. That had finally settled it—Leigh Anne had decided to use Mrs. Kennedy. Having met her, she was glad. The woman was pleasant to be around. Just then, Maggie was leaning over Dot, who was pretending to read the story in a wonderfully illustrated children's book. Maggie exclaimed over the drawing of King Arthur and Guinevere. Dot laughed, but clearly did not remember her.

Children were blessed with very short memories, Leigh Anne thought with a small pang. She wished her own memory of the
past would vanish, too. She was be ginning to realize that she must forget the woman she had once been, if she was to be a good mother to the girls. Recalling the fairy-tale balls, where she had danced the night away in gorgeous evening gowns, saddened her. Somehow, she must think of the future now. She smiled a little, imagining herself as a plump matron with some gray hair, the children a few years older. In the scenario, she remained in a wheelchair, but she was content and the girls were beautiful and happy.

In the fanciful daydream, Rick was there, strong and handsome, an integral part of their lives.

“Read! Read!” Dot cried, smiling devilishly.

Leigh Anne jerked back to the present. Katie, as serious as usual, took her little sister's hand. “Mrs. Kennedy is here to make us clothes, real fancy clothes, the kind Mama wears,” she admonished. She smiled just a little, at Leigh Anne.

Leigh Anne's heart turned over. She knew the children had been raised in a fatherless, working-class home with few amenities. In spite of how serious Katie was trying to be, she saw that her eyes sparkled with excitement. Leigh Anne had sent the nurse away. Now, she turned the wheels of her chair, moving it closer to the sofa where Dot sat, and Maggie and Katie stood. A sense of triumph filled her as she approached. It was so strong she did not care that her hands were blistered from turning the wheels.

She could actually move about. It felt like a miracle. Maybe she could actually become that plump, happy woman….

“Can I help you?” Maggie asked, moving nervously to stand beside Leigh Anne.

Although she was breathless from the exertion, Leigh Anne was also aware that the smile she gave Maggie was genuine—a reflection of her real pleasure. “I am fine, Mrs. Kennedy, but thank you.”

“Shall I bring my samples in? Some clients wish to detail the order first, while others prefer to look at the fabrics. They often
change their mind when they find a color or a material they like.” Maggie smiled, but her blue eyes remained lackluster.

Leigh Anne recognized the sadness in the other woman, as much as if they were kindred spirits. Maggie Kennedy was in some kind of distress. “I should love to see some swatches,” she said. “But I do wish to see Katie in a bright, daffodil-yellow. Katie? Would you like a yellow dress? I think the color would suit your complexion and your hair.”

Katie nodded, her eyes huge, clearly too excited to speak.

“Daff! Daff! Dot want daff!” Dot shrieked.

Leigh Anne reached for her chubby hand. “You, my dear, I should love to see in pastels—a pastel green, a sweet baby blue. Wouldn't that be lovely?”

Dot held her arms wide. “Mama! Mama, Mama!”

Leigh Anne's pleasure vanished. She knew Dot wanted to be picked up and placed in her arms. But of course, she could not manage that feat, and she would never manage it again. The sadness returned, tenfold.

“Here you go,” Maggie said, moving before Leigh Anne could react. She lifted Dot and handed her to Leigh Anne.

Leigh Anne held her tight, just for moment. The girls were the real miracle, she thought. Then she smiled at the other woman, who regarded her kindly but without pity. Leigh Anne knew, in that moment, that she liked her very much. “Thank you. Do you approve of my color choices?”

“It is not my place to approve,” Maggie said quietly.

“But I should like your honest opinion.”

Maggie smiled. “I think bold colors will suit Katie, and you are right, soft pastels for the baby.”

Something clicked in Leigh Anne's mind then, some thing about Maggie Kennedy that she should know. An image of the countess Benevente assailed her, and Leigh Anne recalled the gossip she had heard and shared with the widow. She made the connection, at last. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but are you
the woman with whom Evan Cahill was dining, along with some young children, at one of the hotels, perhaps a month ago?”

Maggie Kennedy turned crimson. She glanced away. “He is very good to my children,” she murmured. “I have four.” She smiled too brightly now. “My oldest, Joel, is Miss Cahill's assistant. Evan—I mean, Mr. Cahill—often visits the children, bringing them cookies and gifts.” Her tone dropped. “We haven't seen him in some time.” Then she smiled at Leigh Anne again. “I'll go get those samples. I left my case in the front hall.”

Leigh Anne watched her go out, bemused. She hoped the pretty seamstress wasn't in love with a man she could never have, not in any proper way. Worse, Cahill was a rake and everyone knew it. Bartolla suited him; they were a good match.

Peter came to the parlor door. “Mrs. Bragg? O'Donnell is at the front door.”

She froze. “Send him away!” she cried. And panic consumed her.

Rick had said he was taking care of O'Donnell—but the man had come back! Why was he there? Rick had told her that Feingold had already filed the adoption papers, but he said the process usually took several months. In that moment, Leigh Anne knew that they could not wait. Rick had implied that O'Donnell was going to leave town—immediately. Had she misunderstood?

Peter was striding down the short hallway to the front door. Suddenly fury added to her panic, fueling her as nothing else could. She seized the wheels of the chair, turning them fast and hard, racing down the hall after Peter. She heard Katie calling her, but she did not stop. There in the front hall, not far from Maggie, was Mike O'Donnell. He dared to grin at her. Leigh Anne feared him, but in that moment, she hated him, too. He was not going to be a part of the girls' lives—and he was not going to take them away.

Huffing and puffing, Leigh Anne rolled the chair so fast that he had to jump out of the way or be hit by it. Peter caught the
handles, braking her before she crashed into the wall. “Turn me around,” she told him.

Instantly he turned the chair to face O'Donnell.

“Good day, Mrs. Bragg,” he began. “It's lovely day and I was thinking—”

She rudely cut him off. “Don't tell me it is a lovely day! What do you want? Why are you here?”

Peter, who rarely spoke and never volunteered ad vice, leaned low. “Mrs. Bragg, I'll get rid of him.”

She reached behind her, stopping him. “No.” She stared coldly at O'Donnell.

“Like I said, it's lovely day, and I was thinking to take my nieces for a little stroll in the square.”

“Never,” Leigh Anne cried.

His smile flashed. It felt ugly and dangerous. “I got every right to take my own flesh and blood out for a walk,” he said, pleasantly enough.

All she could think was that he intended to abduct the girls and she would never see them again. “No. You don't have every right. They live here with us now. You may be their uncle, but you are a stranger. I cannot allow you to take them for a stroll.”

His smile faded and his gaze held hers. “I got every right. I know my rights, 'cause I just got a lawyer.”

Her heart seemed to stop. “You have retained a lawyer? Why would you want a lawyer?” she managed, hoping her horror didn't show.

“Well, the girls are my nieces. I know you got a fancy house here an' lots of money, but I've been thinking about it. They belong with me and Aunt Beth.”

Hadn't she sensed all along that he wanted to take the girls away? It was her worst fear come true. It was worse than losing the use of her legs. It was worse than anything she could imagine.

Maggie had stepped close. She said, lowering her tone, “Call your husband, ma'am.”

Leigh Anne heard her. She wet her lips as her mind raced furiously. “You can't give them the life that we can. And…and we love them.
I
love them.”

“Now, isn't that nice! I'm glad you're so fond of them, and I know you're right. You can give them pretty French dresses and brand-new toys, and I'm just a hard working, God-fearing plain and simple man. But I can give them a roof over their heads, a bed, home-cooked food and schooling.”

She realized she was shaking. “We plan to adopt them, Mr. O'Donnell.”

“Really?” His eyes widened. “Don't I get some say in that?” He began to think, rather theatrically, his gaze on the ceiling. “Maybe that's not such a bad idea.” His dark eyes narrowed. “Send the big servant and the lady away,” he ordered.

Her every instinct told her that it was not a good idea to send Peter away. He had often served her husband as a bodyguard, and she knew he carried a concealed weapon. “Peter,” she began.

He faced her, his expression one of protest.

“Could you step outside the front door,” she asked softly, holding his gaze and hoping he understood. She would somehow settle this.

He did. His expression changed and he nodded. If O'Donnell thought to grab the girls and make a run for it, his way would be blocked. He walked out. She turned to Maggie, but the redhead said, “I'll go into the parlor and show the girls some fabrics.” Maggie looked alert and wary now and her tone was strained.

When she had left, Leigh Anne found herself very much alone with the weathered longshoreman. Instantly she was afraid of him. “What is it that you wish to say to me?”

“I guess you and your hubby aren't all that close, now, are you?” He leered softly, leaning down so that their faces were inches apart.

Leigh Anne flinched. She didn't want him so close to her. It felt as if he were invading her body somehow, but she was helpless now, because she could not move her chair backward. “What does that mean?”

“It means we had a little chat,” he said softly, smiling at her now. His lips were very close to hers. He murmured, “I told him how much I miss the girls.”

Leigh Anne thought her heart might pound its way right out of her breast.

“I really do miss them,” he added.

Leigh Anne swallowed hard. “How much?” she whispered. Her lips felt heavy, paralyzed. “How much do you want? What will it take for you to leave us alone?”

He grinned. “Are you offering me a
bribe,
Mrs. Bragg?”

Somehow Leigh Anne said, “I am offering you a helping hand. I know times are difficult for you now. And you are the girls' uncle. I should love to assist you and your aunt.”

“That is mighty generous of you.”

O'Donnell was looking at her mouth. Leigh Anne stopped breathing. The look was very male—as if he was about to kiss her. She seized her wheels so tightly her hands hurt and tears of helpless rage filled her eyes.

He raised his gaze and their eyes met. He saw her fear and smiled. “You're a real pretty woman, for a cripple,” he said softly. “You got two legs beneath that nice silk dress?”

She was shaking with fright and she did not want him to see, but she could not control it. She wanted to tell him to get out of her house, but she opened her mouth and no words came out.

He placed both hands on the arms of her chair, thoroughly trapping her there. “I might not care about the legs,” he said, low, “'cause the rest of you sure is fine.”

Leigh Anne felt as if she were being strangled. “How much?”

He touched the bare skin above the neckline of her pale silvery-gray dress. She shivered reflexively and he laughed. He suddenly straightened. “Times are tough. And you're right. We're relations now, and I could use some help. But you know what? I don't want to piss off the police commissioner,” he said with wide-eyed innocence.

She understood. “I'll get whatever you need for you—and I won't tell anyone, not even my husband.”

He smiled. “Such a pretty and smart lady!” The smile vanished. His gaze was cold. “Tomorrow. You got until tomorrow night—fifteen thousand dollars will do.” He gave her a hard look and hurried out of the house.

Leigh Anne sat in the chair, shaking like a leaf, so ill she thought she might vomit. Peter rushed inside, took one look at her and said, “I'd like to call the boss.”

“No!” she cried. Peter stared at her, clearly disbelieving. She somehow smiled. “I am fine, now that that odious man is gone. There is no need to worry Rick.”

“Mrs. Bragg,” Peter began.

Miraculously, she spoke even more firmly. All the while, her mind was planning. “I am
fine,
” she stressed. “You are not to call the commissioner,” she said, and it was an order.

Peter slowly nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

Leigh Anne felt utterly violated, as if she had been brutalized. But she had been abused, hadn't she?