Deadly Kisses (36 page)

Beth O'Brien stood by the kitchen table, her blue eyes on the attaché case he held. O'Donnell closed the door. Bragg saw that he, too, stared at the briefcase. Their greed filled him with revulsion and disgust.

“I guess your pretty wife has been telling you how hard it's been for us these past few months,” O'Donnell asked, walking over to him.

Red rage filled him. O'Donnell had terrorized Leigh Anne. But when he spoke, he was surprised at how unemotional and calm he sounded. “She has told me that you wish for a fresh start. There are better employment opportunities in the south, I believe.” He went to the kitchen table, not looking directly at either the man or the woman, but very aware of them from the corner of his eye. Both O'Brien and O'Donnell came to stand there, as well. He laid the case down and unbuckled the two straps. Then he opened it completely, revealing the stacks of bills inside. “I imagine such a gift will be very helpful,” he said, his heart thumping with a peculiar and sickening force. He added very softly, still not making eye contact, “You can count it if you wish.”

O'Donnell chuckled and reached into the case. He removed one bound stack. “That won't be needed, Commissioner. Hey, you know what? With relations like you, we might never have to worry about anything again.”

Bragg stepped away from the table. He could no longer control
the forceful pounding of his heart. It would be so easy to seize his revolver and get rid of these two. If he didn't, they were coming back, he knew it the way he knew the sun would rise tomorrow.

“Guess I got the little lady to thank for that.” Grinning, O'Donnell put the stack back inside the attaché case. “A wife like that would make a man do anything.”

Bragg was never aware of moving, but suddenly his hands were around O'Donnell's throat, squeezing as hard as he could. O'Donnell was against the kitchen wall, his eyes bulging and his face turning red. “You fucking bastard! Never speak of my wife again.”

O'Donnell's face changed from red to purple.
It would be so easy now.

“You're killing him!” Beth screamed, seizing him from behind.

He was killing this lowlife, and no one would ever know. They would be free.

O'Donnell began to wheeze, panic in his bulging eyes.

He would know.

Bragg released him, stepping back. “Never mention my wife again,” he snarled. “Do you understand me?”

O'Donnell fell to his knees, clutching his throat, now blotched red.

O'Brien cried, “Get out. Just get out. We have the cash—get out!”

He turned to look at her. Her eyes were filled with hatred and her face was no longer benign or grandmotherly at all. He couldn't kill O'Donnell—and he could not do this, either.

“You are both under arrest,” he said, and he reached into his jacket. Then he snapped one manacle on O'Brien's wrist, the other on the leg of the table, his actions forcing her to sit down. She gaped in shock.

He hauled O'Donnell to his feet. The thug was coughing now. Bragg cuffed him, as well.

“You will regret this!” O'Donnell managed hoarsely.

“I almost did,” Bragg said.

 

M
ARTHA
G
ILLESPIE AIMED A
double-barreled derringer directly at Francesca's head. Francesca's heart plum meted. She was almost certain that she had found Daisy's killer.

“What are you doing, Mrs. Gillespie?” she asked very carefully. She still clutched her purse, where she had her own pistol, but she did not dare move.

“My family was destroyed a long time ago,” Martha said harshly. A tear tracked down her face. “Now you will destroy what is left of us.”

“I don't want to destroy anyone,” Francesca said softly. “I was Daisy's friend. I only want justice.”

“If only you had left us alone!” Martha cried, her hand shaking, the gun wavering.

“You knew, didn't you? You knew that your husband was taking advantage of Daisy.”

“Not at first,” Martha whispered. “Of course I didn't know, not at first! But then Daisy began to act strangely. She stopped smiling. She never laughed. She would not speak to Richard. She had adored him, but then she flinched when he touched her. I was glad when she ran away!”

Francesca was stunned. “Maybe
Richard
was the one who should have left.”

“It was not his fault! She was always too beautiful, even as a little child. Then, when she became a young woman, the way she walked, the way she carried herself…everyone noticed. She was temptation, Miss Cahill, evil, carnal temptation. I have no doubt that she lured Richard into her bed.”

Francesca felt ill. “She was twelve years old.”

“Was that when it began? I didn't realize what was happening
until just before she left. Richard had said he was coming up to bed, but he never did. I wasn't well. I needed a doctor, so I went looking for him. You can imagine where I found him.” She trembled even more and more tears fell.

Richard had been sexually abusing Daisy for three years and her mother had never known it. “Surely, surely, you made certain that it never happened after that night.”

“I left them alone—I had to leave them. Richard doesn't know that I ever discovered his secret.”

“You had a duty and a responsibility to protect your child, Mrs. Gillespie. You never confronted your husband?” Francesca was aghast.

“I never confronted him,” Martha cried. “How could I? Could you? I am sorry, I did not have the courage!”

Francesca's grief for Daisy grew. “When did you decide to kill her?”

“I am not an evil woman—like she was. There is a reason she became a prostitute. She was blackmailing us! Richard told me that he had found her and that she refused to come home. I was glad—I would have never let her back in the house. One night I found him crying. He told me he was sending her money, that he wanted to help her, but I knew instantly that she was blackmailing him with her dirty secret.”

“So you hated your own daughter?”

Martha lifted her chin. “I loved my daughter. Until she became a harlot—until she lured Richard into sin. And then I had every right to hate her.”

Francesca could only stare, sickened.

“Mother, don't say another word!” Lydia rushed into the room, her wide eyes going from her mother to Francesca and back again.

“She is trying to destroy our family, Lydia,” Martha said firmly.

“That isn't what she intends. She only wants to find Daisy's
killer, Mother. She did not know that would destroy what was left of us.”

So Lydia knew her mother had murdered Daisy. “You knew, too, didn't you? You knew what your father was doing to your sister?”

Lydia faced her, beside Martha. “Yes.” Her expression was ravaged. “I knew. In the beginning, when he left her room, I would go to her and she would cry in my arms. But it didn't take long, Miss Cahill, for the tears to dry up.”

“Why didn't you say something?” Francesca demanded.

“I was ten years old!” Lydia cried, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I hardly understood. I was
thirteen
when Daisy ran away, Miss Cahill, and we both pretended that nothing was wrong after it all began. It hurt too much otherwise.” She was a ghastly shade of white. “The truth is,” she managed, shaking, “it wasn't until I learned that Father had found Honora here in the city and that she was a prostitute that I really understood what had happened when we were children.”

Lydia had managed to block the ugly reality out. “I'm sorry. Why did you frame Calder Hart?”

“To protect my mother. Hart's involvement with my sister, and the fact that he was here the night she died, made it so easy to frame him. All I had to do was come back to the city and put a bloody knife in his coach. I did it Wednesday. Now please go away!” Lydia cried. “Go away and leave us alone.”

Francesca was shocked. “Lydia, this is a tragedy. But your father needs to pay for what he did to Daisy and your mother
murdered
her.”

Lydia stared at Francesca, her expression tight and strained. Then, never removing her gaze, she said, “Mother, give me that gun.”

Instantly, Martha handed it to her daughter. As instantly, Lydia pointed it at Francesca. “I know you won't understand. But please, try. I hate my father. I have hated him since he first
went to Honora. I loved my sister—I missed her every day that she was gone—but I was glad she had left. I prayed she would find happiness, but she didn't. Because of my father, she is dead. Mother is all I have left. Please try to understand. Please, don't take her away from me, too.” And tears began to slowly fall down Lydia's cheeks.

Francesca ached deeply for her. “Your mother killed Honora, Lydia. You do know that?”

“I know. I discovered her in the act—and I helped her flee.”

Francesca stared. Lydia was an accessory to murder. “Where is the murder weapon?”

“I threw it in the bushes of the neighbor's. What are you going to do, Miss Cahill?” Lydia asked.

“How can you ask me to walk away and pretend that I know nothing?” Francesca replied, aware that Lydia was no longer aiming the gun, but held it loosely at her side.

“I am not asking you, I am begging you,” Lydia whispered. Then she raised the pistol. “And if my pleas do not move you, then maybe this will.”

Lydia trained the gun at Francesca's head. Did she know how to fire the weapon? How good was her aim? “You are not a killer.”

“I will protect Mother at all costs. We should have never come to the city!” she cried, and her hand wavered.

Francesca rushed her, tackling her at her waist. As Lydia fell backward, the gun went off, but the shot was wildly off any mark. If the gun was fully loaded, Lydia had another shot left, but Francesca wasn't sure that was the case or that Lydia even knew it. Francesca seized Lydia's hand, which held the gun and their eyes met.

“Please,” Lydia cried, and she released the gun.

Francesca took it, shifting off of Lydia and onto her knees. She pointed it at the younger woman. “There is another shot.” Or so she hoped.

Lydia looked helplessly at her.

Francesca backed up and rose, quickly pointing the gun at Martha. “Don't move, Mrs. Gillespie. I do not want to shoot you, but if I have to, I will.” That was a bald lie, because she had no intention of shooting either of these women.

Martha sank down in the chair in front of Daisy's desk. “Don't hurt my daughter,” she whispered.

 

F
RANCESCA MET
B
RAGG IN
the front hall when he arrived with two officers and Inspector Newman. She had left both women in the study with their hands tied be hind their backs. Lydia's pistol had not been fully loaded, and there had not been a second shot in it. “Thank God you are here!” she cried, seizing his arm as he rushed into the house.

“Who is it, Francesca?” he demanded. A patrolman had delivered her message that she had Daisy's killer in custody.

“Martha Gillespie murdered Daisy,” Francesca said, restraining him. “Bragg, this is a terrible tragedy. Apparently Martha hated Daisy for what transpired. She blamed Daisy for seducing the judge. She knew that Gillespie had found Daisy here in the city, and she realized quickly enough that Daisy was blackmailing him.”

“She confessed to all of this?”

Francesca nodded, filled with worry. “There is more.”

“I thought so,” he said, his concerned gaze on her face.

She shuddered. “Lydia witnessed the murder and helped her mother flee.”

Bragg was grim. “That makes her an accessory, Francesca.”

“She did not conspire to the crime! She loved her sister and she has been every bit as much a victim as Daisy was, Rick! She has hated her father since he first started molesting Daisy. Rick, she was trying to protect her mother.”

“What would you have me do? Are you asking me to withhold
the details of Lydia's involvement, are you asking me to tell the D.A. not to press charges against her, too?”

Francesca hadn't realized she still gripped his sleeve and now she released him. She wrung her hands. “I guess it is unfair of me to ask you for such a favor.”

He was clearly unhappy. “I almost murdered O'Donnell today, Francesca. I was this close to killing him with my bare hands and tossing the body in the river. But I didn't. And I didn't pay him off, either—I arrested him and his aunt. I have spent my entire life being the most honest man that I can be. I am sorry about Lydia. We can recommend a suspension of her sentence. It is very likely a judge would respond favorably to such a plea.” He gave her a dark look. “Or you can ask Hart to help you. I am sure he could manage the suspended sentence easily enough.”

She stiffened. “What does that mean?”

“I think you know.” He signaled to his men and they started through the front hall.

She chased him. “Is this about his bail?”

He gave her a look over his shoulder. “As I said, ask Hart to make certain Lydia doesn't suffer any further.”

Francesca stopped in her tracks as Bragg and his men went into the study. Her head was aching from the blow she had sustained yesterday. She rubbed the back of her head but it was tender and she winced. Once, a life time ago, knowing right from wrong had been so easy—it had been black or white. Now the world had suddenly become every possible shade of gray. She did not know what to do. Her every moral fiber refused to succumb to the temptation of further bribery, yet she could not stand the thought of Lydia suffering any more than she already had. She was also aware that there would be more charges against Lydia if she told Bragg that she had attempted to frame Hart for the murder.

The two women came out of the study with the police. They
were both in handcuffs. Instantly, Lydia's gaze met Francesca's, and no plea for help could have been clearer.