Deadly Kisses (28 page)

Bragg seized his arm. “Have you really ended it with Francesca? She thinks so, but I know you. Is this a ploy on your part?”

Hart smiled at him strangely. Then he climbed into the carriage, signaling his driver to leave.

 

A
FTER PICKING UP
J
OEL,
Francesca had Raoul drive them to the brothel where Rose lived and worked. But Rose was not in. Instead, Francesca had interviewed the madam, Mrs. Delaney, and two of her girls. Everyone agreed that Rose had become increasingly angry in the course of the past few months—and not just with Hart, but with Daisy. Rose had changed, becoming sullen, hostile and with drawn. According to Mrs. Delaney, there had not been any reconciliation with Daisy. However, no one believed her capable of murdering the woman she so loved.

Mrs. Delaney told her that Rose had said this morning that she was going to Daisy's. Now, as Raoul parked the carriage across the street from Daisy's brick home, Francesca wondered if Rose could really be the murderer. If she was, wouldn't she avoid the scene of her gruesome crime? But if she were innocent, being at Daisy's might provide some comfort in her time of grief.

As Joel and Francesca began to step down from the carriage, Francesca saw the front door of Daisy's house open. Instantly she recognized the large, gray-haired man leaving. She seized Joel's arm, pulling him back inside the coach, in shock. Brendan Farr, New York City's chief of police, hurried to a small carriage that was waiting. He climbed in and the carriage drove off.

What was Farr doing at Daisy's? He might have been there on police business, but he was not an inspector—he had an entire police force to run. Not only that, he had not been with any other police officer, and police men rarely conducted their affairs alone. Her instincts screamed at her. Something was amiss.

“Miz Cahill?” Joel was wide-eyed. “Wasn't that the chief?”

She reached for his shoulder, her mind spinning. “Yes, it was.” How calm she sounded. Had Farr been at Daisy's to look for evidence? If so, the fact that he was alone spoke volumes. If he was on this case, he was clearly acting on his own. She knew he despised her. She knew he was not loyal to Bragg. She thought he was only loyal to himself, and possibly to his own select group of men. Did he wish to crack the case himself? Did he want the glory, the fame? Or did he hope to circumvent her? Hart was both Rick's brother and her former fiancé. He would be pleased, she thought, if Hart took the fall for Daisy's murder.

But would he tamper with evidence? Hart had been framed. Francesca was uneasy. She had suspected Farr of criminal activities in prior investigations. She did not trust him and she knew he was ruthless. In this case, however, he had no motive for murdering Daisy.

She turned her gaze to Joel. “I am very suspicious,” she said.

He nodded. “Want me to tail him?”

It was a brilliant idea, but if Joel was caught, she would be afraid for his safety. “No. He's a dangerous man, Joel. I'd worry what he might do if he ever found out that you were following him.”

“But he wouldn't find out,” Joel said, his eyes dark with excitement.

“I can't put you in that kind of danger,” Francesca said firmly. As they stepped onto the sidewalk, she tried to think of some other reason for his presence at Daisy's. The more she debated the subject, the more she became convinced that he was up to no good—and that he was a threat to Hart.

Homer answered the door. “Good afternoon, Miss Cahill.” He seemed to have come to grips with his mistress's murder and he let her in with a slight smile. “How may I help you?”

“Is Rose Cooper here, by any chance?” Francesca asked.

Homer nodded. “She is in the salon.”

Before he could lead her the short distance to the salon, Francesca restrained him. “Homer, what did Chief Farr want?”

“I don't know, Miss Cahill, but he and Miss Cooper spoke for a few moments.”

Francesca rubbed her jaw. So he was investigating the case on his own! “Did he snoop about the house?”

“No.” Homer seemed surprised. “I believe he came here looking for Miss Cooper.”

Did he also suspect Rose? she wondered. “How long did they speak? Were you present?”

“He was only here for a few moments, perhaps five minutes, maybe ten. And I am sorry. They spoke behind closed doors. I didn't hear anything.”

Francesca hesitated. “Homer, if he comes back, would you please tell me? And if he does, could you possibly, discreetly, eavesdrop?” She smiled sweetly at him.

Homer's eyes were wide. “He is the chief of police,” he said in surprise.

“Yes, he is. But the department is terribly corrupt. I do not know why he is here. He is not an inspector. If Newman had come today, I would not be so dismayed.”

Homer nodded, appearing uneasy.

Francesca smiled reassuringly at him and he showed her to the salon doors. Although Rose was not the mistress of the house, Francesca waited while he knocked. Rose answered the door immediately.

Instantly, Francesca saw the dark circles under her eyes and the downward turn of her mouth. Although she was beautifully dressed in a dark blue velvet suit, it was obvious that she had just been crying. “Hello, Rose,” Francesca said softly, and she could not help but feel sorry once again for the other woman. The truth was, she hoped Rose was not the killer. “Are you feeling any better?”

Tears filled Rose's eyes. “I will never feel better,” she said.
Then, her gaze flashed. “No, I will feel better when Hart is in prison for his crimes.”

Francesca decided not to argue about Hart's guilt or innocence. “I am glad I found you. I have some new leads and I need to ask you some questions.”

“This is not a good time,” Rose said.

“Has something happened? Did Chief Farr upset you?”

Rose spoke in anguish. “Did you know? Did you know that Daisy was pregnant with Hart's child?”

It took Francesca a moment to realize that Rose had not known about the pregnancy. And in the next instant, she realized that the discord between Daisy and Rose must have been even greater than she had thought, for Daisy not to have said a word. “I found out yesterday,” she said. “Farr told you?”

“Yes.” Rose wiped at the tears that were falling. “I am unbearably hurt.” She turned abruptly and walked back into the salon.

Francesca followed her inside. “Did you and Daisy reconcile at all?” She wanted Rose to admit that they had not, as Mrs. Delaney and her girls had said.

Rose whirled, weeping. “I had thought so. I had thought there was hope. I mean, we did spend some time together. She said I was her dear friend. I thought that when she got over Hart, things would return to the way they were. But she was planning on having his baby and she did not tell me!”

Francesca put her arm around her. It did not seem as if Daisy had remained in love with Rose. “You don't know that things wouldn't have returned back to nor mal, in time,” she said, trying to comfort her.

Rose gave her an angry glance and pulled away. “Daisy misled me, and not for the first time!”

Francesca saw her sudden, open anger. “How else did she mislead you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I want to help,” Francesca said, but in truth, she wanted to know if Rose had been angry enough to murder Daisy even though she hadn't known about the child.

Rose sank down on the sofa. “We spent a few nights together and that was why I had hope. She would act as if nothing had happened between us, and then it was all about her scheming to get Hart back. There were times when I felt used, Francesca. I didn't want to admit it, not even to myself. Do you think she was using me?”

Francesca was beginning to wonder that herself. “I think she cared about you.”

“When she told me she was going to accept Hart's offer and become his mistress, I begged her to reconsider. I knew no good could come of it! She laughed. She loved me then—she told me not to worry. But within weeks, I was worried. Within weeks, Hart refused to allow me in this house, and she was happy! Do you know what it is like to have your heart broken, not once, but many times, by the same person?”

“No, I don't. Did you share your feelings? Did you confront her?”

“Do I seem like the kind of woman who would keep my feelings to myself? Of course I told her how I felt, and we argued madly! We have been arguing for months.”

Francesca looked at the floor, her heart pounding.

Rose seized her arm, standing. “You are looking for evidence against me!”

“Rose, I don't blame you for how you feel,” Francesca began, in the hopes of placating her.

“Get out!”

Francesca wished she had had more tact. “Rose, if you did not kill her, then the killer is out there. I found Daisy's real family and I need to ask you some questions.”

“You found her family?” Rose seemed astonished.

Francesca told her about Judge Gillespie and his wife and daughter.

Rose sat down, staring at her lap. “She came from such a good family,” she whispered.

“And she left them to become a prostitute,” Francesca said. “Rose, I have to ask again. Please, are you certain she never alluded to her reasons for running away?”

“Never,” she said firmly. “The one time I tried to ask her, she made it very clear that if I ever raised the subject again, our friendship was over.” Rose finally glanced up, meeting Francesca's eyes.

Francesca absorbed that. “Do you know anything about the twenty thousand dollars Daisy deposited in her bank account in May?”

Rose's eyes widened. “She deposited twenty thousand dollars in her account?”

“Yes, she did. Do you have any idea how she got a hold of such a large sum?”

“No. I don't. This is the first I have heard of it.” Rose became bitter. “So she was keeping another secret from me!”

Francesca noted how hostile toward Daisy Rose seemed. “Well, I certainly don't think she was paid such a sum for her services,” Francesca said. “Someone was paying her off. The question is, why?”

“Paying her off?” It took her a moment to understand. “Well, we both know who had a motive.”

“The money did not come from Hart.” Francesca decided to change the topic. “I have one more question. What did Chief Farr want?”

“He wanted to ask me some questions,” she said, looking away. “I think he thinks I am involved—just as you do.”

Francesca felt certain that Rose was lying about Farr. “What kind of questions did he ask?”

Rose shrugged. “He wanted to know where I was that night. I told him what I told you—what I already told the police.”

“Is this the first time he questioned you?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

She was lying again. “Why won't you tell me the truth? I want to find Daisy's killer, Rose, and you are making it very difficult for me!”

“I am telling you the truth. I never met Chief Farr before today,” Rose cried, standing. “And I didn't like his questions, just like I don't like him!”

Francesca sighed. “Very well. If you recall anything Daisy said, anything you did not understand, or anything that might relate to the investigation, please contact me.”

Rose nodded, clearly relieved that Francesca was leaving. Francesca entered the front hall, Rose remaining be hind. Homer materialized and opened the door for her.

Francesca felt as if she were very close to solving the case, as if the answers she was seeking were right there in front of her.

She faced Homer with a smile, handing him one of her cards. “Please, do not hesitate to call me if you think of something that seems relevant to the case.”

“Miss Cahill? I couldn't help overhearing. I think there is something you should know,” he said, surprising her.

“What is that?”

“You mentioned a Judge Gillespie.”

“Yes, I did. Why do you ask?”

He was eager. “Because Judge Gillespie was here, twice.”

“You mean today?”

He shook his head. “No. Last month. In May. He came to see Miss Jones.”

Thursday, June 5, 1902—4:00 p.m.

L
EIGH
A
NNE HADN'T MADE
a single social call since the carriage accident had destroyed her ability to walk. That had now changed. The episode with that hideous O'Donnell replayed time and again in her mind. But she was deter mined: O'Donnell was not going to destroy her family. So she was calling on the only person who might actually lend her fifteen thousand dollars—and do so discreetly. She intended to convince Bartolla Benevente, the wealthy Italian countess, to lend her the vast sum, and if persuasion was not enough, she was prepared to go even further.

Her stomach was in knots. Trembling, she remained seated in her wheeled chair in the foyer of the Channing home, Peter hovering by her. Bartolla was wealthy, although no one knew exactly how great the fortune was that her dead husband had left her. She certainly had fifteen thousand dollars, Leigh Anne thought. However, Leigh Anne knew Bartolla well enough to know that she was selfish and even malicious.

Leigh Anne wished she could share this terrible burden with Rick. She had actually considered doing so, but she had realized almost instantly that she could not tell him what had happened. He would arrest O'Donnell, she was certain of it. What if the courts failed to convict him? Or what if he was released on bail before any trial? She was terrified of him. He would come back, she knew it, only this time it would be worse. Perhaps he would go so far as to abduct the girls. He was clearly evil and vengeful.
Or he might harass her again. She knew he would not be adverse to using his male power over her and that thought sickened her impossibly.

She was shaking with her fear and her determination. Rick's income was modest and they had little savings, so she could not go to the banks, as they would never extend such credit to her. Nor could she go to his wealthy family without Rick knowing. Her sole recourse was the countess.

The last time she had seen Bartolla was when the countess had called on her at home, at least a month ago. Bartolla had seemed to delight in Leigh Anne's new circumstances. Leigh Anne had understood. Bartolla enjoyed being the most beautiful woman in any room, and she had always looked at Leigh Anne as if they were rivals, when that was not the case. While they were not exactly friends, Leigh Anne had never considered her a threat, and they were certainly more than acquaintances. They had spent some time together in Europe, and not just on social occasions. It had been completely natural for two American women in a foreign country to seek each other out for shopping and luncheons and chitchat.

God, it seemed like a different lifetime, Leigh Anne thought, perspiring.

Bartolla sailed into the entry hall, a bright smile on her face. As always, she was beautifully attired in silk and diamonds. “Leigh Anne! I am thrilled that you have decided to get out and about, at last! I wondered if you would ever return my call. You must be feeling so much better,” she gushed, bending down toward Leigh Anne so she could peck her cheek. She made an effort to do so, just so Leigh Anne might notice how inconvenient it was to now greet her in her chair. “Or have you be come used to that chair?”

Leigh Anne felt herself smile. The act was a monumental feat. She did not miss the verbal barb, but she would take any knives that Bartolla wished to throw her way. “My dear, please
forgive me for my rudeness in taking so long to return your call. But you are the very first call I am making since my accident.” Leigh Anne's mouth was dry. This was the first time she had ever referred to the accident with anyone other than Rick.

Bartolla must have somehow known. Her eyes widened a fraction with some surprise. “I am so flattered.” She turned toward Peter. “Please, push Mrs. Bragg into the salon so we may sit and chat more comfortably.”

Peter obeyed. The big Swede had been in a state of distress ever since O'Donnell had left and Leigh Anne had refused to let him summon Rick. She knew how loyal and devoted he was to them both, and he had witnessed firsthand her depression, her sorrow and her inability to get out of the house these past few months. Understandably, he was suspicious of her outing now.

When he had wheeled her into the salon, Bartolla following, Leigh Anne smiled firmly at him in dismissal. He left the room, leaving both women alone in its vast, exotic interior.

“How is the police commissioner? He must be frantically trying to solve Daisy Jones's murder.”

“He is deeply involved in the investigation. Of course, he does not apprise me of police affairs,” Leigh Anne said, although that was not quite the truth.

Bartolla gave her a skeptical look. “Is he hoping Hart really is guilty of the dastardly deed?” She laughed.

Leigh Anne controlled a flash of anger. Hart was Rick's half brother and despite their enmity, that made him family. “Hart is not a murderer. Surely you remain friends with him, and with Francesca?”

Bartolla merely smiled benignly. “Hart despises me—and I despise him. But of course, I adore Francesca. She is so good and she can do no wrong, ever!”

Leigh Anne did not like the sound of that, but she could not be diverted now. “Bartolla, how is Evan?”

“Wonderful, wonderful, and thank you for asking. We are
more in love than ever.” She lowered her voice. “We shall soon tie the knot, I think, my dear, and I have never been happier.”

“I am so happy for you.” Her heart continued to race madly in her chest. “Our lives have certainly changed, haven't they, since we were both in Europe?”

“Yes, our lives have changed. I hadn't really thought about it.”

Sweat ran down Leigh Anne's body in streams. “Dear, I was actually hoping to ask a rather important favor of you. I am in a bit of a difficult situation,” she managed to say.

Leigh Anne could feel Bartolla's avid curiosity—or was it delight? “You wish to ask
me
a favor? How odd! What trouble could you possibly be in? Other than the fact that you have suffered a terrible, tragic accident, of course.”

Leigh Anne smiled stiffly. Bartolla was never going to let her forget that she was crippled for life. “I really cannot say. I do know this request is somewhat unusual, but…could you lend me some funds? It is
extremely
important,” she added nervously.

Bartolla was clearly stunned by the request. “You wish to borrow money from me? But of course, Rick works and makes a modest living. Are you thinking of buying some expensive jewelry? Why wouldn't you approach his father? Rathe Bragg is a millionaire.”

“I can't. This favor must remain a private matter, strictly between you and me.”

Bartolla understood. “You don't want Rick to know.”

It was so hard to do this, Leigh Anne thought. But then an image of the girls swept through her mind, Dot so blond and angelic, Katie so worried and needy. “No, he can never know.”

Bartolla took a closer seat. She leaned forward. “This is intriguing!”

“It really isn't,” Leigh Anne somehow said.

“Well, what do you want the money for? I must know!”

Leigh Anne had no intention of telling her. “Bartolla, I am
afraid that is also a very private matter. But I am quite desperate. I am asking you for help. I will be indebted to you forever.”

Bartolla blinked, sitting upright now. After a thoughtful pause, she said, “Well. How much do you need?”

Leigh Anne felt her lips stretch into a frozen smile. “Fifteen thousand dollars.”

Bartolla cried out. “That is a small fortune!”

“Yes, and your husband left you a fortune. Please.” Leigh Anne felt as if she could no longer breathe.
“Please.”

Bartolla stood up and she looked down at Leigh Anne. “Darling, I cannot help you. I am sorry. I simply cannot lend you such a sum, as we both know you would never be able to pay it back.”

Leigh Anne instinctively seized the arms of her chair, her body urging her to leap to her feet. “Of course I will pay it back.”

“How?” Bartolla was disbelieving.

“In a few months, I will borrow the money from Rathe. He will not hesitate to loan it to me and I know you are aware of that.”

Bartolla seemed perplexed. “Then borrow the money now.”

“I can't.”

Bartolla was clearly trying to ascertain what Leigh Anne was up to. “Darling, I do apologize. I simply cannot help you. You will have to go to your father-in-law.”

Leigh Anne was ready to weep. Instead, she said tersely, “Will you change your mind if I invite Evan for supper, and regale him with tales of our adventures on the Continent?”

Bartolla blanched and Leigh Anne knew she understood.

Bartolla had married an Italian count at the age of six teen. He had been sixty. Within a month of that highly publicized marriage, she had begun a series of sensational, very public affairs. Those affairs had continued for three years, until his
dying day. The count had not seemed to know—either that, or he had not cared.

Leigh Anne hated descending to blackmail. She had no choice.

“I will deny everything,” Bartolla finally said.

Leigh Anne shrugged. “I intend to tell him the truth, Bartolla. I hate doing this, I do. But I desperately need fifteen thousand dollars—and I need it by tomorrow night.”

Bartolla was tight-lipped with anger now. “Evan will not believe you.”

Leigh Anne said nothing.

“Why do you wish to hurt my chances for marriage with him?” she cried.

“I don't. I just need the money. Please.”

Bartolla remained as white as a sheet. “I am with child, Leigh Anne. Now I am asking you for a favor—do not say anything to Evan.”

“If you do not loan me the funds, I am going to tell Evan about all of your affairs, every single one, and I will give him
names,
” Leigh Anne said. “Pierre Maurier is in the city, by the way.”

Although it was almost impossible, Bartolla blanched further. “I can't give you the funds.”

“Then I am afraid Evan will learn of your prior infidelities,” Leigh Anne said.

Bartolla seemed close to tears. “Do you think I am living here in the middle of nowhere by choice?” she cried. “I have no wealth! I am impoverished, completely so. My life here as the wealthy widow is a sham! My husband left me a pittance, a pittance, Leigh Anne. He left everything to his children, damn them all!”

 

F
RANCESCA AND
H
OMER WERE
still standing in the open doorway when Francesca realized someone was slowly walking up the brick path to the house. She turned and saw a woman with
vaguely dark hair. Her eyes widened as she recognized Daisy's sister, Lydia.

Lydia's brownish hair was pulled into a severe chignon and she was beautifully dressed in a black mourning dress. Her face, despite its olive complexion, was pale, and she seemed tense and strained as she hesitantly approached. Francesca quickly went to greet her. “Miss Gillespie! This is a surprise. Can I be of any help?” she asked. This was an opportunity and she knew it.

Lydia was staring into the house, her eyes wide. She finally looked at Francesca. “So this is where Honora lived.”

Francesca nodded. She glanced toward the street, where a hansom was pulling away from the curb. “You are alone?”

Lydia nodded. “I need to see where my sister lived.”

“Come in, then,” Francesca said gently. She stole another glance at Lydia's profile; she remained distressed and grief-stricken. “How are your parents?”

Lydia paused in the front hall, looking at the Venetian mirror, the fine side table, the potted palm in its Oriental vase. “They are in mourning. Honora did very well for herself, living as she did.”

“Yes,” Francesca said carefully.

Lydia turned to her. “You said you were friends.”

“Somewhat. The moment I met D—Honora—I liked her.”

“Why? She was hardly a lady.”

“I do not judge books by their covers, Miss Gillespie,” Francesca said. “And Daisy—I beg your pardon!—your sister was intriguing. She was a study in contradictions. She was clearly well-bred, and gracious and graceful. And she was helpful to me in an earlier investigation.”

“I don't see how you liked her. How could you like her when she was the mistress of your fiancé?”

Francesca winced. “I take it you have been reading the newspapers?”

“He kept her here. Your fiancé.”

“Hart broke up with your sister in February, when I accepted his proposal.”

“But she continued to live here, in his house. It's so odd.” Lydia looked away. “She was always that way, even at fifteen.”

“What do you mean?”

Lydia shrugged. “She was so beautiful. Everyone would stare at her—women as well as men. Everyone fell in love with her.” Lydia met Francesca's gaze. “Did Mr. Hart fall in love with her?”

Francesca tensed. “You will have to ask him.” Lydia seemed to be asking a lot of questions.

“Did you and your fiancé end your engagement because of her?”

Now warning bells went off, but Francesca smiled. “Hart wants to protect me from scandal. We broke up because Daisy was murdered. It had nothing to do with their past affair.” She stressed the word
past
slightly.

“I don't mean to be rude, but what if you didn't like my sister very much? What if Mr. Hart was still seeing her?” Lydia's eyes were huge.

Francesca realized her instincts had been right. Lydia was interrogating
her.
“I have an alibi, Miss Gillespie. I was out with my parents at the time of the murder.”

Lydia flushed. “That was rude of me, when you are trying to find my sister's killer.” Tears came to her eyes. “I miss her still!”

“Do you want to sit down?”

Lydia shook her head. “I wish she had never run away.”

“Lydia, why did she leave home? I know the two of you were close. You must have an idea.”