A Francesca Cahill Novel

Daisy was Calder Hart’s mistress, or she had been, until recently. “Yes, of course.”

Bragg said, “She was murdered last night.”

Leigh Anne gasped. “That is terrible,” she said, meaning it, even though she had never met the other woman.

“I may be late tonight after all,” Rick said, sounding grim.

Leigh Anne had many questions now. As Hart was Rick’s brother, even if they did not get along, she began to worry. “Of course.”

“Thank you for understanding,” he said. “I had better go.”

“Yes,” she said, still stunned by the news of Daisy’s murder. She knew Hart somewhat, but not all that well, and wondered at his reaction to the news.

Leigh Anne replaced the receiver on the phone’s hook. “Mr. Mackenzie? I’ll go downstairs now,” she said, thinking about Francesca now. How was she faring? she wondered. She almost smiled. Francesca was undoubtedly on the case, as no one was more intrepid than she.

As Mackenzie wheeled her out of the bedroom, Leigh Anne realized that Francesca would be working on the case with Rick. She refused to feel any jealousy, because she and Rick had a marriage of convenience and nothing more. But she knew that Rick had been fond of Francesca while they had remained separated, and no matter how she tried, a part of her hated them working together again.

“I’ll have you downstairs in a moment,” Mackenzie said with a smile. The nurse lifted her from the chair to carry her downstairs, Katie behind them. This was the moment Leigh Anne hated the most, when she had no choice but to be in the nurse’s arms as he carried her down the narrow Victorian staircase.

Her cheeks grew hot. This was simply too intimate. Leigh Anne closed her eyes, forcing herself to endure the moment. And for an instant, she imagined herself in Rick’s arms, the strongest, safest haven she had ever known.

But that was not to be. Not ever again.

“I’ll get the chair,” the nurse said, having carried her into the parlor. He placed her on the sofa and left.

Katie was watching her. Sensing her every emotion, she grasped Leigh Anne’s hand. “Mama? Can we go to the park today? You, me and Dot and Papa?” Clearly she had overheard the telephone conversation.

Leigh Anne squeezed her hand. “I am afraid your father is involved in some urgent police affairs,” she said. “But yes, we can go to the park and feed the birds.”

“Papa never goes anywhere with us anymore!” Katie cried. “Mrs. Flowers can make us a picnic and we can fish, the way we did the last time he came with us.”

Leigh Anne stiffened. The last time they had had a picnic, she had left, unable to bear such a family occasion, and Francesca Cahill had taken her place. Rick would probably still be in love with the other woman if they had not reconciled—a reconciliation Leigh Anne had forced him into.

If not for the girls, she would leave him and set him free.

Their single servant, Peter, a tall Swede, appeared on the parlor’s threshold. “Mrs. Bragg? You have two callers.”

Leigh Anne arranged her face into a smile. “Who is it, Peter?” she asked, filled with dread. If it was Bartolla Benevente, she would send her away.

“It’s a man and a woman, Mrs. Bragg. He claims to be the girls’ uncle.”

Leigh Anne seized Katie’s hand. “But that’s impossible!” The girls had no family.

“He says he’s Mike O’Donnell.” Peter was grave. “I can send him and the woman away.”

Leigh Anne began to shake. “No, no, send them in. We must find out what he wants.”

A SHORT, POWERFULLY BUILT Spaniard, Raoul had been far more than Hart’s driver and valet—he had been Hart’s bodyguard. Now he was Francesca’s personal driver. Francesca had no delusions that, given the nature of her work, Hart wished to offer her protection at all times. Having been in dire jeopardy more than once, Francesca did not mind having such a driver. Now Raoul was driving Francesca downtown amid numerous drays, carts and wagons. The Lower East Side was as different from Fifth Avenue as night from day. Hers was the only elegant passenger vehicle on the cobbled street. Numerous vendors were hawking bolts of cloth, tallow for candles and lye soap, and other wares, and the pedestrians on the sidewalks were mostly women in aprons, carrying small children or groceries. Laundry lines were hanging from window to window. A gang of adolescent boys was playing a hard game of stickball. Even on Avenue A, the noise from the Third Avenue Elevated could be heard and its smoke and soot cast a gray pallor everywhere. Finally the coach halted.

Francesca had met Joel Kennedy, a young, street-smart kid, on her very first investigation. Joel was the oldest of four children, his mother a pretty, hardworking seamstress who was widowed. During the Burton abduction, Joel had helped her navigate her way through some of the city’s seamiest sides. Francesca had needed his help, but she had also wanted to turn him away from his life of petty crime. After he had proved indispensable to her on several other investigations, she had hired him as her assistant. Now she picked up Joel Kennedy or had him meet her every day.

But young Joel was not on her mind, and neither was Rose nor the crucial questions she must ask her. Why was Hart lying to her, when they had come so far as a couple? Their relationship had been based on absolute honesty until now. How could he lie to her, and what did it mean for them and their future? What was he hiding?

Her first impulse had been to travel to Bridge Street and confront Hart in his offices, demanding to know why he had said he was in Boston when he had been in Philadelphia instead. But Francesca had instantly seen the folly of that action. Confronting Hart was never a good idea. He had a huge, quick temper, and she would only ignite it. The current investigation had already begun to place a strain on their relationship, and Francesca did not want to add to it. If she had judged him correctly last night, he had been grieving for Daisy. She could not attack the man she loved when he was mourning. But hadn’t she seen and sensed something else in the nature of his tension? Last night, Hart had refused to discuss why he had called on Daisy. In doing so, he had pulled away from her, his usual response to a difficult situation—a response she dearly hated. Could his refusal to discuss his visit to Daisy have something to do with his trip to Philadelphia?

As rational as she was trying to be, it was hard not to be shaken.

The fact that he did not trust her hurt her terribly. She had been Hart’s staunchest supporter and his biggest ally from the first moment they had met, when she had been investigating the Randle killing. Hart had been implicated, and even then, when she had not known him, when she had been infatuated with Bragg, she had known he was no killer. Even then, she had refused to judge him solely on his notorious reputation. From the first, she had seen past his reputation and his arrogant, at times callous behavior. Beneath the ego, the confidence, there was so much vulnerability. Hart was good. She still believed that with all of her heart and all of her being. But at times, his behavior made it so difficult to remain loyal!

She stubbornly refused to concede to his many critics now. There was an explanation. She knew it, the way she knew he was a good man. Surely he had a good reason for this last deception. She would bide her time, she would not push him, no matter how she wished to. She knew from experience that any impatience on her part would backfire. She would trust him as she worked on this case, because one day he would truly trust her in return and explain everything. No matter what, she was not giving up on Hart, and not this easily.

Joel appeared in front of the tenement building where he lived with his mother, his two brothers and little sister. He was a thin, short boy with a shock of dark hair and very fair skin. He grinned at her as he climbed up into the coach, allowing Raoul to open the carriage door for him. Joel had come a long way, Francesca thought, smiling with affection at him. Clearly, he enjoyed Raoul treating him as if he were a little prince, when just a few months ago he had been stealing purses.

“Thanks,” he said to Raoul.

Raoul almost smiled and shut the door firmly before climbing onto the driver’s seat.

Even though it was June, Joel wore a knit cap over his black hair, and Francesca tugged on it. “Good day, Miz Cahill,” he said.

“We are on a new case,” she told him as Raoul lifted the brake and clucked the two handsome bays on. “A murder investigation.”

He grinned. “My favorite kind of case. Think it will be dangerous?”

“I hope not! And I also hope I am not jading you,” Francesca said seriously. She sighed. “You know the victim, Joel, as do I.”

He was all eyes. “Who got iced?”

She was not up to correcting his slang now. “Miss Jones.”

He understood right away. “Mr. Hart’s er…lady friend?”

“Hart’s ex-mistress, yes.”

His eyes bulged. “Ma’am! What happened?”

Francesca filled him in. “When we get to Daisy’s, I will interview Rose. As usual, I need you to canvas the ward and find out if anyone saw anything suspicious between ten and midnight last night. To the best of my knowledge, we have lost the murder weapon, a knife. You can keep your eye out for that, too.”

He nodded gravely. “Do we got any suspects?”

Francesca hesitated. “Not exactly. But I am afraid both Hart and Rose are at the top of the list right now.”

Joel adored Hart. It was obvious that he clearly ad mired the man, as they had both come from the same desperately impoverished background. “Why would Mr. Hart off Miss Jones?”

“He wouldn’t,” Francesca said firmly. “But in a crime like this—I am sure the autopsy will reveal numerous stab wounds—the police always look at family and friends first. Whoever murdered Daisy, Joel, knew her and wanted her dead. We must find the real killer, and quickly.”

“Before Mr. Hart gets in trouble,” Joel said, nodding grimly.

Francesca tugged on his cap again. She had become as fond of the boy as if he was her little brother, but then, she was very fond of his mother. Maggie Kennedy had been acting somewhat oddly lately. Francesca had taken tea with her twice, and the Kennedy sparkle had been missing from her stunning blue eyes. “How is your mother, Joel?”

He grimaced. “I dunno. Something’s bothering her. She’s so sad all of the time. I mean, she pretends not to be, but I can tell.”

Francesca hesitated. A month ago, she had witnessed her brother Evan saving Maggie from an insane killer, and there had been no mistaking his concern for her. As she had already suspected romantic sparks flying between the two, she had been delighted, never mind that an up town gentleman should not dally with a downtown seamstress. Evan was currently living at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He had been disowned by their father, much to Francesca’s dismay, but the bright side was he seemed to have abandoned his notorious gambling ways. He was now making an honest living as a law clerk, and Francesca was very proud of him for standing up to their father.

While Evan was a ladies’ man with a rather large reputation, Francesca knew he would never compromise Maggie, and she was certain he had strong and genuine feelings for her. Hart had advised her to stay out of the affair, reminding her that Evan was courting the Countess Benevente. Most of society thought he might marry her, although Francesca wasn’t so sure. She could not imagine Bartolla Benevente marrying a law clerk. But then, she was a wealthy widow, so Francesca could be wrong. “Joel? Has my brother called at all?” She simply had to know.

Joel scowled. “I thought we were friends! He used to come by all the time with all kinds of goodies an’ gifts. I ain’t seen him since Father Culhane tried to kill my mother.” He was angry now. “I know what’s up. He’s too busy with that countess to bother with me, Paddy or Matt.”

Francesca reached for him but he pulled away. “He’s having a rough time these days,” she said gently, and it was the truth. “Imagine how you would feel if your father disowned you and you had to move out of the house. Imagine what it would be like if your father refused to call you his son.”

“I don’t have a father,” Joel said sarcastically. “He’s a grown man, not a boy, so it don’t matter, anyway.”

Francesca sighed. Joel had come to care far too much for her brother, and maybe Maggie had, too. She should not get involved, but if ever there was a time to interfere, it was now. If Evan was not going to pursue a relationship with Maggie, he should have never treated her as he had when she had been in so much danger. Francesca decided she would call on him later in the day. And then Daisy’s Georgian brick home came into view. She tensed, instantly forgetting all about her brother. An image of Rose, grief-stricken and holding Daisy’s mangled body, came to mind. Francesca was sobered by the recollection.

Joel had learned to wait for Francesca to alight from the carriage first. When she had done so, he leapt to the street. “I’ll start talkin’ about,” he said.

“And don’t forget Daisy’s servants,” Francesca reminded him as he started off. She had discovered long ago that witnesses spoke differently to different interrogators. Often she could get more information than the police, and Joel would certainly be handier with the staff.

This time, the front door was firmly closed and her knock was promptly answered by Daisy’s butler, Homer, a white-haired man of middle age. He ushered her inside, looking positively stricken. Francesca thanked him and handed him her card. “Good morning. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was a friend of Miss Jones. I am a sleuth.”

Homer read her card. It read:

Francesca Cahill

Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

All Cases Accepted, No Case Too Small

“I do recall, Miss Cahill. I am afraid that…” He stopped, unable to continue, clearly distressed.

“I was here last night,” she said gently, laying her hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry about Miss Jones.” She would begin her investigation with Homer, she decided.

“Thank you,” he whispered, ashen. “She was a good employer, ma’am. She was very kind to me and the staff.”

“I know,” Francesca said softly, although of course she had not known. “I came to see Miss Cooper, but I should like to speak with you first.”

He nodded, not at all surprised. “Are you going to find her killer?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Good! She did not deserve to die,” he cried. “I know she sinned, but she wasn’t a bad woman.”

Francesca patted his shoulder. “Maybe you should sit, Homer. May I call you Homer?”

He nodded. “I am fine. It’s just the shock….”

“I know. At what time did you finish your duties last night?”

“At half past five.”

That was very early and Francesca was surprised. “But what about supper? Or did Miss Jones go out?”

He shook his head. “She was staying in with a guest. She dismissed me, Annie and Mrs. Greene,” he said.

Francesca was surprised. It seemed that Daisy had been planning a private evening with someone. But she had to make certain she had not misunderstood. “When Daisy was entertaining, she dismissed the staff?”

He flushed. “Last night she wished for a private evening, Miss Cahill.”

Francesca stared. What was he not telling her? “But this was her pattern of behavior?”

His color deepened. “When I first came to be employed here, she would dismiss us when Mr. Hart called.”

Francesca’s insides lurched and tightened. She should have been expecting that, she realized grimly. “And after Mr. Hart and I became engaged?”

“She entertained Miss Cooper a few times, but other wise, she would go out, which was usual, or stay in alone.”

Francesca blinked. “Miss Cooper does not live here now?”

Homer seemed surprised. “No, she does not. But she calls once or twice a week.”

It did not sound as if Daisy and Rose had resumed their former relationship. Or, if they had, it sounded as if it had lost some of its fervor, Francesca thought. “Who did Miss Jones see last night?’

“I don’t know,” he said apologetically.

Francesca’s mind raced. Before she and Calder had become engaged, he had called on Daisy and she had dismissed the staff. On a few occasions, she had dismissed the staff in order to see Rose. Calder, of course, had arrived at Grand Central Station at seven o’ clock—she had the ticket stub to prove it—so he could not have been her caller last night, for Daisy had dismissed everyone at half past five. Surely she had been expecting someone by six or seven o’clock. Had she been expecting Rose? “Perhaps she was going out?” Francesca had to rule this possibility out.

“Oh, no! She had me prepare a small supper, which she said she would take later. She also asked that I chill champagne and ice two glasses. It was odd, because the supper was for one.”

Francesca tried to breathe. Daisy had intended to have drinks with her caller, but not dine with her or him. This was another fantastic lead! “You went to your rooms at half past five? And that is when Mrs. Greene went home and Annie went to her room?”

“Yes.”

“And this morning? Was the champagne gone? Had both glasses been used? Had she eaten her supper?”

He met her gaze. “No one drank anything last night. I had opened the bottle for her, and two glasses had been poured, but neither had been drunk. Her supper was untouched.”

Francesca tried to fight her excitement. If Homer had been instructed to open the bottle of champagne before retiring for the evening, then Daisy’s caller had been expected shortly after five-thirty. Had Daisy greeted the killer with champagne? If so, she had seemed to intend an intimate rendezvous with her murderer. And if the drinks and her supper had not been touched, had she just narrowed down the time of her murder? “Did she say at what time she was expecting her caller? And did you see or hear anything last night?”

“She made no mention of when she was expecting her caller.”

Francesca said, “And you did not see or hear anyone?”

“I went out for a while, Miss Cahill, to take a drink with some friends. When I returned, it was well past eight—it was close to nine-thirty or ten. The house was dark, which I found it a bit strange, but I saw some lights upstairs and I decided it wasn’t my business. I was tired and I went to bed. Mr. Hart awoke me at midnight.”

Francesca’s mind raced. “So you did not hear anything when you came in at nine-thirty or ten?”

“No.”

Francesca’s thoughts veered. “Hart has admitted that he came to see Daisy last night.”

“It was very odd, him calling like that,” Homer said.

“Why? Why was it odd?” Francesca asked quickly.

“Well, he hasn’t called in months.” He blushed. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, but this is so awkward, with this being his house and you being his fiancée.”

“Please, Homer, do not fret on my account! When I accepted Hart’s offer of marriage, I was well aware that he was keeping Daisy, and as we both know, he stopped seeing her at that time.”

Homer glanced away.

Francesca did not like that. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”

“Except for last week,” he amended somewhat glumly.

Francesca tensed. “Last week? He came here last week?” And a treacherous image arose of Daisy smiling at Hart and handing him a glass of champagne.

Homer hesitated, wringing his hands. “I don’t know what I should say or do,” he said. “He is my employer.”

She fought the dismay. “He called on Daisy last week.”

Homer’s brows shot up. “Not that way, Miss Cahill! He came in the afternoon, last Thursday, I think. The visit was a brief one, and there were no refreshments. Miss Jones made it clear she did not wish for them to be disturbed. I don’t think he stayed for even a half an hour. I don’t know what they discussed,” he added hastily.

There was relief, but on its heels came fresh dismay. What affair had they been conducting? “You didn’t hear anything?”

“She sent me away. No. I didn’t hear anything.”

Francesca inhaled. Hart’s call had been the day before he had left on his business trip.

“Miss Cahill?” A woman whispered, her tone tentative.

Francesca saw a housemaid approaching, her dark eyes huge in her pale, freckled face. “Are you Annie?”

Annie nodded, appearing frightened and stricken. “I heard them,” she said hoarsely. “I heard them shouting—arguing—and I heard Miss Jones crying.”

Francesca froze. “What were they arguing about?”

“I don’t know. But Mr. Hart was furious when he left. He was so angry that he broke the door—I saw him do it. And Miss Jones? She collapsed on the sofa, weeping.”

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