by Brenda Joyce
"I have had twelve men scouring the docks, attempting to locate O'Donnell. They have been at it since yesterday afternoon, but you have succeeded where the professionals have not. I wish to be exasperated. Instead, I find myself resigned."
She plucked his sleeve. "I am a young woman. People like O'Donnell don't mind talking to me, or if they do not wish to speak to me, they are eager to speak to Joel, as he is one of them."
Their eyes locked. Francesca did not drop her hand from his arm. A long moment ensued in which neither of them moved. Finally, she let her palm fall to her side.
"What am I going to do with you?" he finally murmured.
She was a heartbeat away from walking into his arms and saying, "Just kiss me." She remained utterly still—and it was a terrible battle that she waged. Finally she murmured as softly, "We make a wonderful team."
"We do."
"I like working with you."
"So do I." He was grim.
"No one has to know."
"Francesca..."
"Bragg! You love me because I am this way. You would not want me to become a wallflower."
He began to smile. "We have enough wallflowers—and debutantes—in this city as it is. I wish more of the women in town were as original and concerned about our issues and affairs as you."
She also smiled. Victory was at hand.
He brushed a tendril of golden hair away from her eyes. "I suppose no harm has been done ... yet."
"I will stay out of danger," she promised fervently. She debated telling him about her gun and decided against it. He might not be as enthused as she.
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes."
He nodded and suddenly he took her hand and pressed it, knuckle side up, to his lips.
It was stunning, what such a simple and chaste kiss could do. Francesca felt its heat all the way through the core of her body and to her toes. She realized, in that moment, that not having him was unacceptable. She loved him—he loved her. It was a tragedy that he had an awful wife. But should that fact bar them from finding happiness?
"What is it?" he asked.
She slipped her hand free of his, stepping back, stunned by her treacherous thoughts—and by the new rationale that had stolen unwanted into her mind. "Nothing."
Surely she was not thinking in such a manner now.
He clearly did not believe her. His dark brown brows were raised skeptically.
She wet her lips and smiled. "How are the girls?"
"I don't know. I left the house at six-thirty this morning; they were still asleep." His eyes sparkled. "As was Peter. He is always up at five."
Francesca had a feeling that all had not gone well last night at 11 Madison Square. Bragg walked past her now, taking his brown overcoat from a wall peg, ignoring the hat hanging beside it. "Shall we?"
"Where are we going?" she asked, with growing excitement.
"To find Sam Carter," he said.
SEVEN
Saturday, February 8, 1902—noon
The warehouse where Sam Carter worked was on the West Side of the city on 21st Street. They took a cab, which was far less conspicuous than Bragg's motorcar. Inspector Murphy had been asked to join them, and Francesca learned that he was the detective in charge of the case.
The warehouse had a huge sign on its sloping roof that was hanging askew, and it read: PAULEY AND SONS. A large wagon was being loaded with barrels in the yard in front as they left their cab.
Francesca and Bragg walked over to the wide open door of the warehouse, Murphy and Joel behind them. They paused by the two men loading the wagon. Bragg looked at Murphy.
He stepped forward and said, "I am Inspector Murphy. Do you know where Sam Carter can be found?"
Both men dropped the barrel they had been lifting back down to the ground. One put his hands on his hips. "Inspector? You mean police?"
Murphy nodded. "I have to locate Sam Carter and I was told that he works here," he said.
The two men exchanged a glance. "Never heard of him," they said.
Francesca felt a floodtide of impatience rise up in her. She glanced at Bragg; he shook his head.
"Who is the supervisor here?" Murphy asked.
"Office in back," said the first man, spitting out a wad of tobacco not far from Murphy's shiny polished Oxford shoes. Then he looked at Francesca. "Sorry, ma'am."
Francesca glanced at Bragg, pleading with him silently. He nodded slightly.
"Sir? I am Sam's cousin. He is the only family I have in the entire city, and I am newly arrived here. I was hoping desperately that we might find him today."
The man looked at her. He was short and heavyset, with a barrel-like chest and huge, thick arms. His brown hair was thinning, and in spite of the cold, he only wore a flannel shirt over the shirt beneath. "Guess you're out of luck. Carter don't work here anymore. No one's seen him in months."
"Really?" Francesca asked.
"Yeah, really. But if he comes around, or if I see him, I can tell him his cousin was looking for him."
"That would be wonderful," Francesca said, realizing they were at a dead end. And she could not give the man her card, as then he would realize she had lied about being Sam's cousin—she doubted anyone would believe that Carter had a cousin living on Fifth Avenue. "My name is Francesca Cahill, and the police will know where to find me."
Inspector Murphy said, "I'm at police headquarters. Three hundred Mulberry."
The man ignored him, and he and his fellow worker reached for the barrel, heaving it up and toward the back of the wagon.
Bragg touched her arm, and they went inside the large, dimly illuminated warehouse. It was a huge expanse of boxes and bales. They stood for a moment and then, down a center aisle and off to the side, saw a small cubicle serving as a room, with a man seated there, bent over his ledgers. They all started forward.
Joel said, "He was lying."
Francesca looked curiously at him; Bragg gave him a dismissive glance. "What makes you say that?"
"I can tell; that's all," Joel said, speaking only to Francesca.
They reached the office space. The man had become aware of their approach, and he had stood up to face them. In his shirtsleeves, a bill cap on his head, he said, "Can I help you folks?"
"Are you the manager?" Bragg asked.
"Actually, I am the owner. John Pauley," he said, extending his hand.
Bragg shook it. "I am the police commissioner," he said. Pauley's eyes widened. "Inspector Murphy, Miss Cahill, and Joel."
"How can I help you, Commissioner?" Pauley asked.
"I am looking for a man in your employ, or at least, he was in your employ until recently. His name is Sam Carter. Do you know where he is?"
For one moment, Pauley looked confused, and Francesca thought that there had been a huge mistake and he did not even know the man. But then he said, "Commissioner, he's right outside, loading up a wagon."
They all looked at one another; then they turned and ran.
But when they reached the street, Sam Carter was gone.
Francesca stared thoughtfully out the window of a cab, Joel beside her, as the cab moved uptown on Madison Avenue, patiently plodding behind two other black cabs, a trolley on their right. Bragg had gone back to headquarters with Murphy, and she had a client to visit and appease. She was only slightly worried about Lydia Stuart.
Carter had been clever, oh yes. How he must be laughing at her now. She felt herself flush.
Joel patted her knee. "Don't fret, lady. We'll find the ruffian again."
"I hope so, but he has the advantage now—as he knows we are looking for him." Unease assailed her. If Carter was innocent, why would he run away from them as he had? She knew that most of the city did not like the police, neither the poor nor the well-to-do. Still, he had given quite the performance, for never in a thousand years would she have guessed that she was talking to the man they were looking for.
She hoped that he was not the killer. Because he had an advantage now, and he
also had nerve.
But then, the madman who had viciously stabbed both Kathleen and Mary to death had had nerve, too. He had crossed their hands in prayer and then left his signature on their throats.
Francesca had learned that Kathleen had also been found covered with snow, but in an alley not far from where she had lived.
She sighed, her gaze on the pedestrians on the street— when she thought she saw a woman she knew and she blinked, looked again, and sat up straight.
Rose Jones was walking down the street. She was alone and carrying a shopping bag. She was beautifully dressed— her coat and hat were matching burgundy wool, and she had a fur stole the same color wrapped about her throat. She had just walked past two gentlemen, and they had both turned around to look back at her.
Francesca and Joel were only two blocks from 37th Street, where the cab would turn right in order to drop them off in front of the Stuart home. She knocked on the partition between her and the driver. "Sir! Pull over—we must get out!"
A moment later Francesca was racing up the block, Joel on her heels. "Rose! Miss Jones! Do wait!"
Rose turned, and her eyes widened when she recognized Francesca. Then her gaze narrowed with suspicion.
Francesca slowed her steps. The last time she had seen Rose, she and her "sister" Daisy were barely dressed and being hauled off in a police wagon to spend the night in the Tombs, Bragg having raided the establishment where they worked. Francesca guessed now that Rose was not pleased to see her, considering her relationship with Bragg and the police. She smiled. "I saw you from my cab. Hello, Miss Jones. Francesca Cahill." She extended her hand.
Rose put her shopping bag down but did not shake hands. She put her gloved fists on her hips. "So?" Her tone was challenging. "What do you want?" She spoke with the intonation of a woman who had been brought up in a genteel manner, with an education.
She seemed angry. But even angry, she was a stunning woman—tall, dark-skinned, with startling green eyes. Francesca said, "I am so sorry about the night you and Daisy spent in jail. I truly begged Bragg to reconsider, but he would not."
"Why would you want to help us?" Rose asked, but less harshly.
"Why? Because I do not like seeing anyone treated abusively, that is why."
Rose stared. Then, with less hostility, "I read about you in the Sun. Why did you hunt down that killer?"
Francesca shrugged. "An innocent man was murdered. There was justice to be had."
She stared. "When you're rich, justice is a grand thing. Most people do not have time for it."
"No, they do not. But I do," Francesca said.
Rose did not reply.
"How is Daisy?" Francesca asked. "Perhaps you could say hello to her for me." Daisy was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever seen. Like Rose, she spoke in cultured tones, and Francesca had not been able to figure out why they chose to use their bodies to make their living. Also, it had been very clear that they were not sisters, and far more than friends.
Rose stiffened. Her eyes seemed to turn black. "Why don't you ask your friend how she is?"
For one moment, Francesca was utterly confused. "I beg your pardon? I should ask Bragg how Daisy is?"
"Not the commissioner. Hart. Calder Hart." She spit his last name.
Francesca blinked. "Oh, no. I can see that you are upset." She clasped Rose's shoulder, meaning to comfort the other, much taller woman, but Rose pulled away. "What has happened? Is Daisy all right?" Francesca could hardly imagine what Hart had done to so anger Rose.
Rose stared, and Francesca realized that she was so distraught she could not speak. "Rose?" she prodded.
"Hart has made her his mistress," Rose said.
"What?" Francesca gasped, an image of Hart, Daisy, and Rose in bed together coming instantly to mind.
"He made her an offer she could not refuse. She has moved into the house he has bought her," Rose said. "He bought her a house!"
Francesca was stunned. The last she had heard, Hart was fond of both women. And he also kept a mistress. "But... he has a mistress." How many women could one man keep?
"He got rid of her. Now he has Daisy!"
Francesca did not know what to think, much less what to say. "I am sorry," she whispered.
Rose said, "Their agreement is for six months. I could kill him for this!"
"Well, it is only six months," Francesca tried, remaining stunned. Of course, she knew why Hart had asked Daisy to become his mistress. She was beautiful, sensual, and kind. Francesca could understand his being smitten with her.
Still, Rose was more than upset, and she was a very volatile woman. Francesca had comprehended that the moment she had first met her. It worried her a little, that Rose was so angry with Hart. But what could she do?
Then she thought about Hart's recent pursuit of Connie.
"A lot can happen in six months," Rose returned. "And he is such a bastard, he has made rules."
Francesca heard her but did not instantly answer. She was appalled now, that he should be setting up Daisy as his mistress while chasing so blatantly after Connie. Of course, she must tell Connie this latest bit of news right away. Then she thought of Connie's reaction to Hart's latest love affair. Connie would be upset—very upset, in fact—and Francesca knew she would give Hart the cold shoulder the next time he approached. She began to smile—their little flirtation would be over the moment Connie learned about Daisy.
This was a blessing in disguise, she realized, and she thanked God for it.
Francesca had heard Rose's words, however. She turned her attention upon her. Was she somehow feeling threatened by Hart? "Surely you and Rose have had a chance to discuss this."
"Not really. It has happened so quickly, I still feel as if my head is spinning!" She looked away. Francesca thought she had seen a tear sparkling on Rose's long black lashes.
Francesca took her hand. Rose removed it. "The two of you are good friends, and no matter what happens in the next six months, your friendship will survive. I am sure of it."
Rose stared. Her rigid face softened. "Thank you, Miss Cahill. You are kind. Daisy was right. She likes you," she added.
Francesca smiled. "Please call me Francesca." An idea swept into her mind. "You know, I would love to call on Daisy. Would you care to join me?"
Rose blinked, and brightened.
* * *
Francesca quickly decided that Mrs. Stuart could wait, especially as Francesca had no news to relate to her regarding her husband's affair. Daisy's house was only a few blocks downtown, and they quickly hailed a cab. As they paused at the curb before an older home that had been impeccably maintained, Francesca heard Rose inhale sharply.
Francesca glanced at her and saw how nervous she seemed to be. She could only wonder why as she reached into her purse for the fare. Finding the small gun there still surprised her.
Rose touched her hand. "I have the fare," she said, handing the driver a half-dollar and some change.
"Thank you," Francesca said.
They alighted and walked through a wrought-iron gate and up the stone path leading to the stately brick house. Francesca decided not to share her enthusiasm—the home was lovely, and she could imagine the grounds in summer abloom. Their knock was answered instantly by a manservant.
But Daisy had appeared at the far end of the hall, a spacious entry with highly polished wood floors, a wide staircase at its end. "Rose!" she cried, hurrying forward, an angelic vision in pale blue silk.
The two women hugged for a long and emotional moment. Francesca watched, smiling a little, and then, when they separated, she saw that Rose had tears in her eyes. "I miss you," Rose said.
"I miss you, too," Daisy responded, smiling and taking her hand. But she was not crying. She seemed breathless with her happiness and had never been more beautiful. Her eyes were shining, and even her magnificent skin seemed to glow from a light within.
Francesca suddenly wondered if she was in love—with Hart. Surprise and so
mething else she did not care to identify stiffened her spine.
Daisy turned to Francesca. "This is a wonderful surprise, Miss Cahill," she said in her soft, breathy voice.
Francesca recovered. Daisy loved Rose—she was certain of that. "I just happened to meet Rose on the street. She told me your news, and quite impulsively, we decided to call on you."
"You are my first caller," Daisy said, and then she blushed. It was obvious she was thinking about Hart, who undoubtedly had been her first real caller—if he could be termed that.
Rose pulled her hand free. She looked around. Francesca followed her gaze.
The hall was lovely. The mauve ceiling had beautiful moldings, which were painted a soft shade of pink. The walls were a different pastel pink, and three paintings had been placed on them. One was a stunning landscape that Francesca guessed to be from the Romantic period, another was a portrait of a medieval nobleman, clearly executed centuries earlier, and the last was an oil that Francesca thought was a seascape but could not be sure, as it was so impressionistic. A beautiful mahogany table with an inlaid ivory top was centered on the largest wall, a gilded tray for calling cards upon it. There was also a huge arrangement of fresh flowers there.
Francesca was impressed. Calder must have given Daisy the art—or at least insisted she hang his paintings— and the flowers alone had been extremely costly. Clearly Hart wished for Daisy to live in the most elegant manner.
Daisy followed her gaze. "Hart told me I should keep fresh flowers there. They are so expensive—I would prefer dry ones. But I would never refuse him." She smiled. "Shall we go sit down?"
"The flowers are beautiful; your new home is beautiful. Are you enjoying it?" Francesca asked as Daisy led the way into a salon with rich yellow walls. Heavy gold velvet drapes hung on the windows, and the furnishings were all rich, warm hues of gold and red and orange, in wools, satins, and damask.
"I feel as if I am in a dream," Daisy said, smiling softly.
Francesca saw that she was happy. She glanced at Rose, who was clearly as unhappy. Rose was brusque. She said, "I feel as if I am in a nightmare."
Daisy rushed to her. "Rose, please. This is for the best. We have discussed it. I... I am so happy you decided to visit me."