Deadly Affairs

by Brenda Joyce

  Francesca froze. He was their man. How else would he know about the cross carved into Kathleen's throat?

  "You got any more questions for me?" he asked angrily. " 'Cause this is your one chance, lady."

  She somehow shook her head.

  "Good! Got no time for a bitch like you." He whirled and then turned back. "Next time you might think to lock your fancy door." He laughed and began stomping up the drive.

  Francesca fled into the house, through it, and to the study. Her hands were shaking wildly, uncontrollably, as she dialed Bragg's home number. As it began to ring, she realized that there was simply no way he could be home yet. She hung up.

  She should follow Sam Carter, so they would not lose him now.

  Francesca ran back through the house, and as she did so, she cursed herself for leaving her gun behind when she had gone out for the evening. But how on earth would she have ever guessed that something like this would happen? She had been at the theater with the police commissioner, for God's sake!

  She raced to the closest window looking out over the frozen grounds and toward the avenue. It was in one of the salons. As she did, she saw Sam Carter about to walk through the open front gates at the end of the driveway. Her fear warred with the few remaining shreds of courage left to her.

  She could not go after him alone. God only knew what he would do if he discovered her tailing him. She inhaled and raced up the stairs and into the side of the house that belonged to her brother. He might not be in at this hour, but she prayed he had dropped Sarah and Bartolla off and come directly home. She began to shout his name. "Evan!"

  He appeared almost instantly, stepping out of his ground-floor study, still clad in his evening clothes, a glass of whiskey in hand. His eyes widened at the sight of her skidding to a stop before him.

  "There is a killer outside; we must follow him—before we lose him and he kills again!" she cried, grabbing Evan's hand.

  Whiskey sloshed over them both. "What in God's name are you talking about?" he demanded.

  "I am—" Francesca stopped. She stared over her brother's shoulder and into the library where he had, apparently, been sipping a drink before bed.

  Bartolla sat on the sofa in her stockings, her red satin slippers on the floor. She also held a scotch, and she smiled at Francesca benignly.

  Francesca could only stare.

  "It is only an after-dinner drink," Evan said stiffly.

  Francesca was appalled. She glanced briefly at him, feeling how wide her eyes were.

  Bartolla stood, smiling in the infectious way she had. "Francesca! Please, do not leap to conclusions, I would never betray my sweet cousin in any way. She knows we are here—she declined to join us. Would you care for a brandy?"

  Francesca was slightly relieved—and still thoroughly taken aback. "This is not done," she managed.

  "I cannot believe you, of all women, would ever say such a thing," Evan growled.

  Bartolla shrugged. "I am a widow, my dear. A wealthy one. I can do whatever I choose, as long as I don't care what they say about me." She shrugged. "And I really couldn't care less what the gossips say. Truly, they are all envious of my freedom." She sipped her drink and sighed. "Dear Evan, this scotch whiskey is marvelous."

  "I brought it back from McLaren after my last hunting trip," he said, smiling at her.

  Francesca decided that now was not the time to analyze Bartolla's liberal spirit or her relationship with her brother. "Evan, by now he is gone!"

  "Who?" Evan asked.

  Bartolla sat up straighter, allowing her legs to fall over the couch, her feet to the floor, where they belonged. "Yes, what is this about a killer?"

  "Damn it!" Francesca cried. She began to shake all over again. Tears of frustration came to her eyes.

  "Are you all right?" Evan asked, setting his scotch down and putting his arm around her.

  "No, I am not! As the man responsible for killing two innocent young women just accosted me in the house and is even now getting away!" she shouted.

  His eyes went wide. "Good God." Then he darkened. "I cannot believe you, Fran. Enough is enough. I suggest you call your friend. That is, I suggest you call the police."

  Sunday, February 9, 1902—10:00 A.M.

  Francesca arrived on Bragg's doorstep at a quarter to ten— before he might think to pick her up. She was not surprised to find him answering the door, his coat already on.

  He was surprised, however, to see her. "Francesca! I was on my way to pick you up."

  "I thought to see the girls before we go." She stepped inside, removing her gloves. "Any luck last night?" She had called him after leaving Evan and Bartolla to their drinks—and then had decided to join the pair so as to chaperone them. Her evening had ended after two, and she was quite tired as a result.

  "No. We scoured the Upper East Side, but he disappeared after leaving you." His eyes were dark, resting upon her.

  "I am so sorry. There was a time lapse—he had quite the head start."

  "I am the one who is sorry. I should have known something was amiss—I sensed it, for God's sake! And to leave your front door unlocked ..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

  Francesca touched his arm. "He didn't hurt me, Bragg."

  "No, he did not, and I thank the heavens above for that."

  "Me, too," Francesca had to agree. Before she could ask him what he thought of the morning newspapers—both the Sun and the Tribune had run headlines about the murders and the case was now fodder for the public—Peter jogged into the hall.

  Francesca could only blink, as his shirt was coming out from beneath his black jacket and Dot was on his back, giggling with delight. He saw them and halted, turning red.

  Dot shouted, "Pee, Pee!"

  Francesca was alarmed. "I believe we must use the facilities," she said, rushing toward them. "Hello, Dot."

  Bragg followed as Peter slid Dot to the floor. "I do believe she has decided to call my man Pee. Considering she has a rather nasty habit, it is probably appropriate."

  Francesca didn't dare look at him now. Had Dot made another mess on the floor? It sounded like it. "How are the girls, Peter?" she asked.

  "Where is the nanny?" was his impassive reply.

  She wet her lips, but Bragg spoke. "Never fear. The girls leave tomorrow." He gave Francesca a stern look.

  Dot pointed at Bragg, her face accusatory. "Bad," she said. "Bad!" she shrieked.

  "And neither one likes me," Bragg added.

  "Well, have you even bothered to play with them?" Francesca asked curtly, taking Dot's hand. The child gave her a beatific smile.

  "Play? When do I have time to play?" he asked incredulously.

  He was right. She sighed. "Bragg, it might take more than a single day to find them a home," she said, leading Dot to the bathing room.

  "Good luck," Bragg said.

  Francesca did not know whether he referred to the event that she hoped was about to happen or to her finding a family for the girls tomorrow. She led Dot inside and seated her on the lavatory. Dot grinned at her and began to play with the doors on the adjacent vanity, not evincing much interest in any biological function.

  "Dot, now is the perfect time—and place—to make a pee. Please, Dot, pee," Francesca urged, squatting beside her.

  Dot said, "Pee! Pee!"

  From outside the door, Bragg said, "Peter has undergone a distasteful personality change. I have not had fresh shirts—or sheets—since Friday."

  Francesca winced. "What if I hire a nanny tomorrow?" She looked at Dot, who grinned back at her, and nodded encouragingly.

  "The girls leave tomorrow," Bragg said firmly. "It has been an entire weekend, Francesca."

  Dot did not seem to like the sound of his voice, because she glared at the door and stood up.

  "Dot, you must do your business," Francesca said, sitting her back on the toilet seat.

  Dot shook her head, trying to punch Francesca. "Pee!" she shouted. "Pee!"

  Francesca decided Dot d
id not have to go, and it crossed her mind that Connie and Mrs. Partridge might be helpful here. She said, "Very well. Off you go to Peter."

  Dot left the bathroom at a run, bee lining for the big man who had tucked in his shirt and combed his wispy blond hair. She leaped at him.

  He caught her and put her on his shoulders and she laughed in delight, grabbing his ears.

  Francesca watched them leaving the hall, smiling a bit. She thought Peter was enjoying himself—although, of course, it was hard to tell.

  Then she felt the eyes.

  She turned, no longer smiling.

  Katie sat on the stairs, staring at Francesca and Bragg. Her expression was as closed as a book, as hard as a rock. When she realized Francesca was regarding her, she leaped to her feet and fled back upstairs.

  Francesca looked at Bragg.

  He said grimly, "She is very sullen. She doesn't speak. She might need the help of an expert, Francesca."

  Francesca nodded. "I wonder if she was like this before her mother died."

  Bragg shrugged. "She is more than you, I, or Peter can handle. That is clear." He smiled at her then. "Shall we? We have work to do."

  She smiled back and had started toward him when she slipped. "Oh!"

  Bragg reacted, catching her before she fell. "Are you all right?"

  "I am fine," she said breathlessly, having almost wound up on her head. "The floor is wet—" She stopped.

  They both looked down.

  "I have had it!" Bragg said.

  "He was a very devout man," Father O'Connor said. "He came to mass every Sunday, and sometimes during the week as well."

  Francesca stood beside Bragg as the interview with Mike O'Donnell's priest began. It hadn't been hard to locate him—they had found the small church where Father O'Connor preached to his parishioners just a few blocks north of Water Street. The mass had just ended and the last of his parishioners were leaving the church. She was surprised to learn that Mike O'Donnell had been a church-going man. He hadn't seemed very religious when she had met him.

  "When did you last see him?" Bragg asked.

  "Just last Sunday," O'Connor replied. He was a tall white-haired man in his later years. "It was a terrible thing, his wife murdered like that—and now his sister, too."

  "Yes, it was. So you knew both women?"

  "Not really. I knew Kathleen. In the old days, before they separated, she would come here with him to worship. Then, they shared an apartment in a tenement a few blocks from here with two other families. But I have not seen her in two or three years," the priest replied. They were all seated in his small office just behind the church. It was a simple room, square, with oak floors and stone walls, a bookcase, and the priest's desk. "She was such a gentle woman, Commissioner. Quiet and retiring, and also devout. I was disappointed that they went their separate ways. I counseled them not to."

  "So you never met Mary?"

  "No, I didn't say that. I met her once, briefly, at Kathleen's funeral."

  "The funeral Mike did not go to," Bragg said.

  The priest hesitated. "I am sure he had his reasons."

  "What reasons could there be?" Francesca murmured.

  O'Connor looked at her. "He loved Kathleen. He did not want to leave her. I believe her death devastated him. He has not been the same since."

  Francesca looked at Bragg. Mike O'Donnell hadn't seemed very devastated the other day. "Did you ever meet her boyfriend, Sam Carter?"

  O'Connor blinked. He had pale gray eyes that were almost colorless. With his white hair and fair complexion, he almost appeared to be an albino. "I did not even know that she had taken a lover. I am truly disappointed in her."

  He had spoken as if she were still alive, Francesca thought. How odd.

  "Did Mike ever show or evince any anger toward Kathleen for the failure of their marriage? Did you ever hear him speak of her in any kind of threatening way?" Bragg asked. "Did he ever threaten her?"

  "I wouldn't know if he ever threatened her; I assume they had their share of arguments. But no, I did not ever hear him speak unkindly toward Kathleen."

  "So he is a saint," Francesca murmured.

  O'Connor looked sharply at her. "I hardly said he was a saint. Intemperance is a sin."

  "He never threatened her, or spoke angrily about her, not even in the confessional?" Bragg asked.

  "Commissioner! You know I cannot reveal anything I have heard in confession."

  Francesca tried to tamp down her impatience.

  "Two women have been brutally murdered, Father," Bragg said coldly. "And if you have heard anything that might help me find the killer, even if during confession, I suggest you share it with me."

  "I would never violate my holy oath," Father O'Connor said rather abruptly. "Now, is that all?"

  "Mary is being buried tomorrow. Has O'Donnell said anything about her death? Has he shared his grief—or other feelings—with you?"

  O'Connor was standing, a signal that the interview was over. "No, he has not. Not really."

  "What does that mean?" Bragg asked, not moving, although Francesca had also risen to her feet.

  O'Connor sighed. "He and Mary were not close. In fact, they were not close at all."

  "What does that mean?" Bragg asked.

  "It means exactly that."

  "You know more than you are telling me," Bragg remarked.

  "I cannot say anything else." He looked away from them both, upward, as if toward God, for heavenly advice.

  "Not even to prevent a third murder?" Bragg remained cold.

  O'Connor's eyes went wide. "Surely you don't think this madman will strike again?"

  "I do," Bragg said.

  Francesca tried not to give him too sharp a glance. What did he know that she did not?

  "Very well," O'Connor said. "O'Donnell lusted after his own sister."

  Outside, Francesca confronted Bragg. "I still think it is Carter, but dear God, the man confessed to wanting to bed his sister!" She felt herself flush. "That is the urging of a madman."

  "So O'Connnor says," Bragg remarked.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that he gave up his confidential information far too easily for my taste. It means I do not trust him. There is one fact. O'Donnell did not go to his wife's funeral. Let's see if he shows up tomorrow at Mary's." He walked over to the carriage that they had taken downtown. His motorcar had, oddly, refused to start up. Today a police officer was driving them about the city.

  "But why would O'Connor say something if it was not true?"

  "I do not know. But he about-faced. He went from telling us how devout O'Donnel is, and the next thing, we learn he is coveting his own sister, which is hardly the thinking of a godly man." He opened the carriage door for Francesca. "A cross was carved onto both women's throats, Francesca."

  Francesca almost tripped while entering the carriage. She faced him with horror. "You don't think—you don't suspect O'Connor!"

  "I wonder," was all that he said.

  "But what about Carter? He knew about the crosses!" she cried.

  "It is in all the newspapers," he said calmly, climbing in beside her. "Where am I dropping you?"

  "Lydia Stuart's," she said, giving him the address. "I saw the headlines in the Sun and the Trib. They have dubbed the killings 'The Cross Murders.' But those papers went on sale early this morning. Do not tell me they came off the press before five or six! I saw Carter last night, perhaps at one or so, and he said specifically that he didn't kill or carve anyone."

  "He might have heard about the details of both murders on the streets," Bragg said. "Or maybe not. In any case, I did not say that O'Connor is a suspect. But he gave in to me far too easily. My intuition tells me he is not honest— or rather, that he is not being honest with us."

  Francesca shivered. "So we now have three possible suspects?"

  "We certainly have two," Bragg said as their carriage merged onto the Bowery.

  "There is Carter, who is very hosti
le and who knows both women were carved. But did he know both women?"

  "That is a good question, and I shall ask him directly when we find him."

  "O'Donnell did know both women, being the husband of one and the brother of the other. He is 'devout'—and a cross was carved into each victim's throat, indicating some kind of religious fanaticism. He did not attend his wife's funeral, yet he told me he loved her and did not want to leave her." Francesca met Bragg's gaze. "Hmm. He also spoke angrily of Carter. And according to O'Connor, he lusted after his sister. Bragg, he has the makings of our man."

  Bragg smiled fondly at her. "A moment ago your vote was in favor of Carter."

  "He scared me last night."

  His smile faded. "I know."

  She shook off her memory of being seized by him. "O'Connor is a man of God, a check for the religious connection, and he also knew both women." She was thinking about the cross carved onto both women's throats.

  "He claims to have met Mary once," Bragg said.

  "You don't believe him?"

  "I don't believe or disbelieve him. Let's see if he shows up at Mary's funeral. It is at noon tomorrow. It shall be an interesting day."

  Francesca hesitated. "Shall we go together?"

  He glanced at her. "Why not?"

  Relief filled her. "I thought that after last night, you might not wish to do so."

  "I have done a good deal of thinking since then," Bragg said. He lowered his voice, although the carriage partition separated them from the driver. "I also treasure our friendship. I refuse to give it up. It is very important to me— even if it means that my man has turned himself into a nanny."

  She felt her heart turn over with joy and exultation. "Good," she said. "Then we remain friends and partners, and I can think of little that might be better."

  He gave her a look.

  Her choice of words had been poor; she knew it the moment she spoke and the moment he met her gaze. She flushed. "Given the circumstances," she amended.

  "I do hope this is not a bad time to call," Francesca said, upon greeting Lydia Stuart. It was early that afternoon now, and they were in a small and cheerful salon.