Deadly Kisses (29 page)

Lydia's expression closed and she glanced away. “I don't know.”

Francesca was certain that Lydia knew exactly why Daisy
had left. “She had to have been very unhappy to run away from home and never come back.”

Lydia shrugged, moving away from Francesca now. Francesca followed her. “If you want to find her killer, you need to tell me everything that you can.”

Lydia faced her abruptly. “The police have arrested Calder Hart. They seem to think your fiancé murdered her.”

“And I know he did no such thing.” Francesca stared back. “Did you ever hear from her?”

“No.” And tears began to fall. “You are right, we were very close! Sometimes we stayed up late at night, gossiping about this and that, discussing clothes, just chatting. We rode our horses together every day. She helped me with my schoolwork, and I helped her. We ate our meals together, because Mother and Father were always out, or Father was always working late. Then she disappeared. And I never heard from her again. How could she do that to me? How?”

Francesca put her arm around her. “Something terrible must have happened to cause her to leave home like that, without a word, at least to you.”

Lydia reached for a locket she wore on a gold chain about her neck. She took it off and showed it to Francesca. Inside was a portrait of the two sisters as small girls. “Since the day she vanished, I have never taken it off.” She hesitated, closing her eyes in a sudden flood of anguish.

“Lydia, please, what aren't you telling me?”

Lydia looked sadly at her. “She did leave me a note, Miss Cahill.”

Francesca was seized with excitement. “She did? What did it say?”

“She told me she was never coming back. She told me she would soon have a better life.” Lydia wiped at her tears. “She said she loved me and she always would. She told me not to worry, and that was all.”

“And she did not say why she left?”

“No.” Lydia sniffed. “I never showed anyone the note, not even when she first disappeared, when Mother and Father were afraid she had been abducted.”

Francesca thought that odd. In a way, Lydia had been a co-conspirator in Daisy's disappearance. Francesca sensed that Lydia still wasn't telling her everything she knew. “Do you know how I found your family?”

“No.”

“I found a box of newspaper clippings in your sister's bedroom. Each and every article was about or referred to your father.”

Lydia blinked. The rest of her face remained a neutral mask.

Francesca wondered at her reaction. “Your sister had been following his life, so to speak, for years. Clearly, although she left, her home and her father remained hugely important to her.”

Lydia shrugged. “Well, I suppose I would have done the same thing if I were her.”

“You would have done what?” Francesca asked softly, certain she was onto something.

Lydia turned away. “I should go. I shouldn't be here. Mother needs me.” She started toward the front door.

Francesca followed. “Lydia, wait! What would you have done?” She grasped her arm, detaining her.

“I don't know why she cut out newspaper articles about our father.” And suddenly Lydia seemed angry. “Why don't you admit it, Miss Cahill? You are not the right person to be investigating this case. All the evidence points to your fiancé. You are hardly objective.”

“I know Hart,” Francesca said tersely, frustrated that she must defend him to Lydia. “And he is innocent. Don't you want to find your sister's killer?”

Lydia jerked free. “I really have to go. I left Mother alone at the hotel, and that is not a good idea.”

“Where is your father now?”

“He is having lunch with some associates at the Waldorf-Astoria.”

Francesca decided to ask Lydia what she wished to ask the judge. “Did you know that your father visited Daisy here in May? Not once, but two times? Did you know that he had found her and was in contact with her?”

Lydia paled, which was answer enough. She had known, all right. The mire of family secrets had just got ten deeper.

 

S
UPPER WAS ALWAYS A
very chaotic time of day—some times, Maggie felt as if the small kitchen table was a moving railroad car. She was serving a soup made of mutton bones, onions and potatoes with a loaf of hot bread. Matt, who was seven years old, was helping Lizzie with her spoon. Lizzie, apparently, did not want to eat and she was being vocal about it. Paddy, who was five, was acting three, making waves in his soup and giggling about it. His soup was getting all over the table. Joel, who was supposed to be present at supper, had yet to arrive.

Maggie looked at her three beautiful children and recalled the countess's unbelievable threats. Inside, dread curdled. She went to Paddy to take his spoon from him. “I am very proud of this soup,” she admonished. “The bones have plenty of meat. If you do not eat it tonight, you may eat it for breakfast.” She meant her every word. With the new order from Mrs. Bragg, she had been able to provide her children once again with healthy meals. She had even snuck a can of green beans into the soup. Canned goods were expensive and, until recently, not in her budget.

Paddy regarded her solemnly. He had the same red hair and blue eyes that she did, and he seemed to have inherited her somewhat shy nature, too.

“You know I mean it,” she said, but she clasped his little shoulder.

Paddy sighed and picked up his spoon, dutifully be ginning to eat.

“Lizzie's not hungry, Mama,” Matt announced. Like Joel, he had dark hair inherited from their father and their father's very fair skin. “Where's Joel?”

“He is with Miss Cahill, of course.” Maggie spoke with some pride. Once, her son had been a cutpurse on the run from the police. His reformation in these past few months continued to amaze her, and it was a source of pride as well as relief. “But unless they are in some circumstance, I am sure he will be here at any moment.” The words were hardly out of her mouth when there was a knock on the door.

Joel had a key. Maggie's heart flipped unpleasantly. She was afraid to open the door and find that cruel, cold countess standing there, with a nasty smile on her beautiful face. Wiping her hands on the apron she wore, Maggie went to the door. She almost fell over when she opened it. Evan Cahill was standing there.

He held a brown shopping bag, and a small bouquet of lovely hothouse flowers.

She could not breathe. She looked from the items in his hands to his dark, handsome face, uncertain as to why, after all of this time, he had come, and suddenly recalling the single kiss they had shared. Then she recalled the countess.

“I know I am intruding,” he said softly, his Cahill blue eyes on hers. They were searching. She knew him so well that she saw they were haunted by his sadness now. “Hello, Maggie.”

He had never brought her flowers before. She could not accept them—he could not be there! She had missed him terribly—just as a friend—and the children had missed him, too. But he was marrying the countess, who was carrying his child.

“I see I have shocked you,” he said.

She nodded and found her voice. “Yes, you have.” How could she throw him out, when she did not have a rude bone in her entire body? “Evan, you should not be here.”

“I just thought to say hello. It's been so long… I have missed the children and I brought them presents.”

Maggie bit her lip. She knew she had to close the door on him and send him away. The countess had threatened her children, and she had meant her every word.

“Maggie?” He seemed puzzled by her lack of graciousness.

How could she chase him away? she wondered desperately. She slowly lifted her eyes to his.

“What is it?” he asked sharply. “Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not,” she replied. She opened the door more widely. “I suppose you can come in—for a moment—to see the children.”

He gave her an odd look. She had never managed his visits before, or been so clear about their nature.

The children now saw him. “Mr. Cahill!” Matt shouted, leaping to his feet.

Paddy also cried out. Getting up, he knocked over his chair. Both boys barreled over to him and he laughed, kneeling to hug them at once. Lizzie howled in protest, banging her spoon on the table, wanting to get out of her chair.

Maggie rushed to her, so she would not try to get down by herself and hurt herself in the process. She glanced at the trio. Both boys were talking at once, Matt telling Evan about school, Paddy trying to tell him about the neighbor's new cat. Evan was laughing and trying to listen to both boys at once.

She was filled with so much love. It was hopeless, she thought, to feel this way about such a man. He was a gentleman, never mind his being disinherited and disowned, and she was a poor Irish woman who worked for a living with her rough, red hands. But it was so good to see him. His presence filled up her small flat, warming it the way the sun did the city after a good rain.

“I am very proud of you,” Evan told Matt, his hand on his back. To Paddy, he said, “One day you can show me the cat. But
I have an even better idea. Maybe this weekend we can go to the zoo.”

“The zoo!” Paddy nodded eagerly, beaming.

“I want to go zoo,” Lizzie cried, clinging to Maggie.

Evan slowly looked at her. “With your mother's permission, of course.”

She could not allow it now, could she? She must send Evan away forever, or live in fear of the countess. “That is a wonderful idea,” she said, unsmiling, “but it will have to be another time.”

He stared more closely at her, clearly surprised.

Maggie let Lizzie go. The little girl ran to him, stumbling as she did so.

“Lizzie, my girl,” Evan said, lifting her into his arms. He glanced at Maggie, who now refused to meet his gaze, and said to the boys, “There are some items in the bag that might be of interest to you and your sister.”

He spoiled them terribly, but it was a wonderful gesture on his part, because they had lived with so little for their entire lives. Maggie watched the boys exclaim over a set of toy soldiers, replete with a cannon and horses, and Lizzie was given another stuffed toy animal, this one a furry black-and-white pony. Lizzie shrieked in happiness, hugging the toy to her chest. Then she began to gallop around the room with the pony.

With the children now busy with their gifts, Evan shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his expression uncertain. He looked from Maggie to the dinner table. “I am sorry I interrupted your supper,” he said quietly.

“We can finish it later,” Maggie replied, fingering the back of Lizzie's chair.

He took in the chair and basket set aside from the table, where the yellow dress that Maggie was working on lay. “I hear you have been given quite a bit of business these past few weeks.”

“Yes, your sister ordered quite a wardrobe, and so did Mrs. Bragg.”

“I am glad.” He hesitated, as if confused by her answer.

Maggie knew her cheeks were hot. It was so awkward now.

Evan picked up the bouquet of flowers, which he had set down on the sofa. “These are for you.”

She wanted to take the flowers, but she could not. What did the flowers mean? An image of the countess filled her mind instead.

“Maggie, what is it?”

She looked up, trying to control her raw emotions. “I cannot accept those. You know that.”

His jaw tightened. “It is only a token of friendship, nothing more.”

She braced herself. “I think you should leave.”

His eyes went wide. “You do not want me here?”

There was no point in reminding him that he was marrying the countess, and they would have a child soon. She did want him there with her and the children. Maggie was unable to find any words now.

He was pale. “Very well. I thought we were friends,” he added with some anger.

Maggie closed her eyes, tightly. The sooner he left, the better.

But he just stood there, and she had to open her eyes. “I just had to see you,” he said.

She flinched. She longed to tell him that she had desperately needed to see him, too, but she knew better, and she kept her mouth closed, afraid the words might come out, anyway.

He turned to go. But suddenly he about-faced and came back to her. “I am sorry about everything, Maggie. But please don't do this. You and the children have become so important to me.”

Maggie felt tears building and she gave up. “You have become important to us, too.”

Relief filled his face. “We can be friends.” He lowered his voice. “I am sorry about the kiss.”

She shook her head as a tear fell. “I'm not.” She wished she hadn't been so honest and she glanced aside.

He seized her hand. “I wish things were different, Maggie,” he whispered. “I wish—” He stopped.

She met his intense blue eyes. “What do you wish?”

His expression hardened as he fought himself. “I want to make certain that you and the children are cared for,” he said. “I know you are independent and you think to go it alone, but I want to help. Please, let me help.”

“No!” She was aghast, and it had nothing to do with her pride and everything to do with the countess. “Why can't you understand that we cannot continue to be friends?”

“Why not?” he demanded.

She pulled away from him and went to stand at the sink, her back to him, shaking.

He came up behind her, so close that her body tightened, warming inside and out.

“Why not? We have been friends for all of this time. Bartolla will understand. I promise to keep my distance—”

She whirled, and she was almost in his arms. “She will not understand!” she cried. Then, realizing she had said too much, she clasped her mouth with her hand.

His gaze narrowed. “What is going on here? Why are you speaking like this? What aren't you telling me?” He took her hand and removed it from her mouth but did not release it.