by Brenda Joyce
Francesca paused on the threshold, gazing at the crowd of dinner guests already gathered together there. She immediately espied the short, slender form of Parkhurst, whom she had met on several prior occasions. He was immersed in conversation with Montrose and two other distinguished gentlemen.
They were all listening to Parkhurst. Many subjects impassioned him, and she wondered which one he had embarked upon. She couldn’t help but study Montrose, who was outstanding in his black dinner jacket. She recalled the brief conversation yesterday upon the stairs, and the gallantry he had evinced toward her. She knew he would never breathe a word of that conversation with anyone, even with Connie.
Or would he?
Suddenly he turned and looked right at her, as if he had felt her staring. Francesca quickly looked away, but not quickly enough—he had caught her watching him. Why was she behaving as if guilty of a crime? Of course, he now thought her a woman of the world. Whatever had possessed her?
Turning away from Parkhurst, Montrose came over to her. “Hello, Francesca. I had hoped you would join us.” His eyes seemed searching.
“Mama insisted,” Francesca said quietly, avoiding his brilliantly blue eyes. Then she instantly regretted not thinking through her choice of words—while simultaneously wondering if she should tell him the truth.
But he smiled. “Yes, I imagine so. I imagine that you would prefer to spend the evening studying at the library.”
Francesca’s gaze flew to his. For one moment, she thought that he knew why she was always at the library. But she had sworn Connie to secrecy, and surely Connie had not told him about her enrollment in college. “I am a hopeless bluestocking,” she managed.
He studied her. “Do you know that sometimes I wonder at how different you and my wife are? And it never ceases to amaze me.”
Francesca was growing more uncomfortable by the moment, and what was worse, not only was she somewhat breathless, her pulse was racing. “Connie is so perfect.” She was the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect hostess. Francesca shrugged. “I am highly flawed.”
He laughed. “You are both unique, and my wife, as much as I adore her, is hardly perfect.”
“What is so amusing?” Connie asked, approaching them with a smile. “I’m so glad you came, Fran,” she said.
Montrose smiled at his wife. “We were discussing just how imperfect you are,” he said fondly, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her close.
Connie smiled at him and then he released her. “What a challenging subject,” she said.
Francesca tried to ignore the gesture of affection. “Actually, we were talking about my flaws,” she said.
“Flawed? You?” Connie hugged her. “Fran, you are stunning tonight.” She gave her a look that said, Just what is going on? Why are you wearing lip rouge and powder? Who curled your hair? Why are you wearing ear bobs and the cameo and rings? She stared, smiling, the questions evident in her eyes.
Francesca wasn’t about to say a word. “Not as stunning as you,” she said, meaning it. Because Connie was one of the most beautiful women Francesca knew, especially in the evening, when she did not restrain herself with either her wardrobe, her jewelry, her makeup, or her hair. Connie had the same glamour Julia had, and it was as effortless as it was inherent to her nature. Her low-cut red gown was daring but so beautifully and simply designed that no one could possibly find fault with it. A huge diamond choker covered her throat. A matching bracelet, as wide as her wrist, adorned one arm. Her lips were rouged the shade of red wine, and her curls, piled atop her head, made her look very Parisian.
“I am in absolute agreement with Francesca,” Montrose said. “Darling, you are stunning tonight, as always. Now, if you ladies will excuse me?” He smiled at them both, bowing, and he returned to the rest of their guests.
Connie plucked on her hand. “What is going on?” she asked in amazement. “Is this my sister I am looking at, or an impostor?”
“Obviously I am an imposter—your sister is at the library, studying.” Francesca was about to ask Connie if she had said anything to Montrose, when she blinked, staring across the room. “Sarah Channing is here, as well?”
Connie followed her gaze. Sarah Channing stood with Julia and another woman, listening, apparently, to the two older women chat. “Evan is courting her, and I do believe it is serious.”
Francesca shook her head. “How can it be? She never says a word. She is so shy and timid; they seem awfully mismatched.”
“I don’t know her well.” Connie shrugged. Evan suddenly detached himself from a group of young gentlemen and a moment later he was at Sarah’s side. He was so much taller than she was, and he stooped in order to speak with her. Francesca watched him smile at her; Sarah eventually smiled back.
“Just how serious do you think it is?” Francesca said, disturbed.
“Perhaps you will have to ask him that?” Connie said with an arch smile. Then she glanced all around, checking to make sure they would not be overheard. No one was about. She took Francesca’s arm and pulled her closer to the threshold of the room—away from everyone else inside. “Mama told me you found the third note this morning,” she whispered.
Francesca stared at her, recalling Bragg’s warning. “She told you?” she cried, but low, and in dismay.
“And that it was covered in blood! Dear God, Fran, is there any more news? Please tell me they have found that sweet little boy.”
Francesca bit her lip. Bragg would not be thrilled to know that her sister now knew about the third note, too. “Connie, don’t tell anyone, please, I shouldn’t have even told Mama.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Connie assured her. “Of course, I already told Neil.”
Francesca groaned.
“And Beth.”
“What! How could you tell Beth Anne Holmes that!” Francesca nearly shouted.
“She is my best friend,” Connie returned. She patted Francesca’s arm. “Have no fear. Beth is not a gossip, and Neil will certainly keep this to himself. Now, let’s go in to dinner.”
Beth Anne was not a gossip? No one loved to talk more! Francesca stared after her sister as she began to round up the dinner guests. Then she hurried after her.
But Parkhurst was speaking, the entire crowd of guests gathered around him. “The mayor cannot choose which laws to enforce.”
“Here, here,” were the murmurs of agreement.
“That was a wonderful sermon you gave yesterday,” Andrew Cahill said. “Simply superb.”
“Thank you,” Parkhurst replied. Because he was such a powerful orator, and so passionate about his causes, his sermons, given at the Madison Square Presbyterian Church on Twenty-fourth Street, were among the most widely attended in the city.
“Of course, I understand Low’s position,” Cahill continued. “It will be the kiss of death if he directs the police to crack down on the saloons on Sundays. Still, Bragg is a man of high moral fiber. I believe he is a reformer at heart.”
Francesca edged closer, so she could hear better, her pulse accelerating. Bragg was a reformer. Nothing could please her more.
“I wonder what Commissioner Bragg will do? Is he Low’s man, or his own man? If he is truly bent on reform, he will have to enforce the Raines Act, sooner or later,” someone said.
“Bragg is caught in a very bad position, indeed,” Cahill returned. “Should he crack down on the saloons, he will ultimately damage Low’s chances for reelection. But should he not do so, he is failing in his duty as a reformer and a moral man.”
“I would not want to be in his shoes,” someone said. “Especially not with this terrible Burton affair. Already the press is accusing him of incompetence.”
Francesca gasped so loudly that everyone turned to regard her. She felt herself flushing. Good God, how could the press be critical of Bragg when he was working round the clock to solve the Burton affair? It was so unfair!
“Everyone, into the dining room,” Connie said quickly, during the bri
ef lapse in the conversation.
And as the crowd obeyed, filing out of the salon, still discussing Bragg’s efforts to solve the abduction, Francesca felt her heart sinking with dismay. What would happen to Bragg if, somehow, he failed to find Jonny—alive?
It was a terrible notion. Francesca also realized that he would undoubtedly lose his post as police commissioner.
She caught up with her father. “Papa? Isn’t the commissioner coming to supper tonight?”
“He has sent his regrets,” Cahill said, tucking her arm in his. “May I escort my beautiful bluestocking daughter in to dine?”
Francesca nodded glumly. She realized that she was very disappointed—and it added to all of her other worries.
She had a French literature class at ten a.m., and Francesca was dressed and downstairs in the breakfast room at a quarter to eight. Her father was already seated at the head of the dining table, sipping coffee and reading the Times while waiting for his breakfast. “Good morning, Papa,” Francesca said with a smile, taking a seat beside him.
He glanced up, smiling only briefly. “Good morning. Francesca, look at this!” He handed her the paper, his face grim.
It was the front page of the Times. And the headline in the center of the page screamed, “More Notes But No Sign of Missing Burton Heir.”
For one moment, Francesca froze, recalling Bragg’s warning yesterday not to breathe a word of anything that she knew to anyone, and simultaneously, she thought about her mother telling her sister, and Connie telling Neil and Beth Anne. She started to read, her hands beginning to shake, when she almost fell off her chair. She read, “A third and fourth note were found yesterday within hours of one another, the former soaked in blood, the latter with a piece of a human ear.” She looked up at her father, stunned.
“Can you believe this ... this ... monster?” Cahill cried. He slammed his fist on the table. “While the commissioner has refused to comment, it does appear as if the poor Burton boy has been murdered!”
She had only told her mother about the third note. Who had revealed the existence of the fourth? And what about the Burtons when they saw this newspaper? Oh, no! They would be devastated and terrified. “This is terrible,” Francesca whispered.
“It is far more than terrible,” her father said. “Your mother told me that you found the third note, Francesca.”
She blinked. So much for confidences. “Papa—” she began.
“No.” He held up his hand. “I know you inside and out, my dear. I know you undoubtedly wish to help find the boy. I do not want you involved. Is that clear?” He was very serious, indeed.
Francesca’s pulse was racing. She nodded as Evan entered the breakfast room and took a chair opposite Francesca. “Good morning. Why is everyone so grim? And what must Fran stay out of this time?” He grinned, then saw the headlines. “May I?” he asked grimly.
Francesca handed him the newspaper, rubbing her temples as platters of toast and marmalade, scrambled eggs, sausages, and bacon were placed upon the table. She no longer had an appetite.
“Your sister found the third note,” Cahill remarked, helping himself to eggs and bacon.
“Leave it to Fran,” Evan said, shoving the paper aside. He stared at her. “Father is right. Stay out of this, Fran. Leave this blasted business to the police. They are experienced when it comes to dealing with this sort of thing.”
Francesca poured herself a cup of tea with trembling hands. “I am not trying to be involved. I just happened to put the clues together. Anyway, Jonny might still be alive.” The moment the words were out she regretted them.
But no one made the connection between her and the police commissioner. “I suppose it’s possible,” Evan said. “But perhaps it might be best if he is dead.”
“How can you say that!” Francesca cried, appalled.
“Because the little boy’s ear was cut off, Fran,” Evan said grimly.
“Perhaps the ear did not belong to Jonny Burton.” She drew herself up stiffly as she repeated Bragg’s words of the day before.
“An interesting theory,” Cahill said. “Shall we change the subject to one more pleasant?”
The siblings nodded. Francesca served herself eggs without much interest while Cahill said, “Evan has news. Why don’t you tell your sister?”
Francesca looked up.
Evan smiled. “Sarah and I are getting engaged. Mama is throwing a big fete this Saturday, and Father will make the announcement while I publicly give her a ring.”
Francesca was dumbfounded.
“Fran!” Evan got up, moving around the table. “Why so white? Did you just see a ghost?” he joked. “I expected a much warmer reaction. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
She blinked at him. “Isn’t this happening a bit quickly? How can you be so smitten!” she cried.
“He’s twenty-five, twenty-six this June. It’s high time he settled down,” Cahill remarked mildly, now immersed in the Herald.
“High time,” Evan said cheerfully.
Francesca felt as if she had just received a bodily blow. “How long have you two known one another?” she finally asked.
“A few weeks,” he said, standing beside her, his hand on the back of her chair. “She is very sweet, Fran. And she comes from a fine family. I am hoping the two of you will become friends.” He was no longer smiling; in fact, his gaze was dark and searching and deadly earnest.
“Sweet,” Francesca whispered. “Would it hurt to delay the public announcement? Until you are truly certain that this is the woman you wish to spend the rest of your life with? The rest of your entire life?”
Evan shrugged and his smile flashed. “But I am certain. You know, Fran, sometimes it just happens. Le coup de foudre. That lightning bolt, sent from Cupid himself. And there isn’t very much one can do about it.”
She nodded, but she could not smile and she did not believe; nor did she believe what she was hearing. “Evan, as your sister, your loyal, loving sister, I beg you to wait a few more months before getting engaged.”
Before Evan could respond, Cahill rustled the paper, putting it down. He stood, most of his breakfast uneaten. “I approve wholeheartedly,” he said. “Children, I must be off to the office. Evan, will you come with me now or are you leaving later?”
“I’ll ride downtown with you now, Father.” Evan winked at Francesca. “It will be all right, Fran. Trust me,” he said.
She swiveled in her chair to watch him as he strolled from the room with their father. Suddenly he looked back and said, “You promised you would call on her.”
Her smile felt sickly. “I shall,” she said.
When they were gone, she pushed her plate away and with her elbows on the table—a pose her mother would murder her for—she laid her head on her hands. Last night she had tossed and turned restlessly, dreaming about pieces of ears and Rick Bragg and finding Jonny Burton—but when they had found Jonny, he had been Joel Kennedy instead, and it had been a huge mistake.
Bragg had said he’d been to the Kennedy home twice since the abduction. Where had he said Maggie lived?
Hadn’t he said Avenue A, just off Tenth Street?
They needed to find Joel. Because they needed to find Gordino even more desperately. He was their only link with the madman behind the abduction and the terrible, sadistic notes.
God. What if that ear did belong to Jonny? What if Jonny had been alive when it had been cut off?
Francesca leapt to her feet, pacing. Do not even think such terrible thoughts, she told herself frantically.
She laid her hands on her throbbing temples. Maggie Kennedy was a decent, hardworking woman. She worked at Moe Levy. Moe Levy was a famous men’s apparel maker. How many factories could he have? Francesca doubted there was more than one. What if Maggie had not wanted to really talk with Bragg, because he was the police? What if she would talk to Francesca, woman to woman? Francesca knew she had to go speak to the other woman. Otherwise, they were very much at a dead end.<
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She turned, thinking to skip breakfast after all, go uptown to school, attend class, study for an hour or so, and then try to locate Maggie. But a flash of bright light outside the window made her pause.
She watched Bragg’s long roadster park on Fifth Avenue, just past the Cahill front gates—in front of the Burton house.
He had certainly seen the morning papers. He must be going to the Burtons to explain, and perhaps try to make them understand that Jonny was not necessarily dead. Francesca didn’t think twice. She rushed upstairs while he was getting out of the car, as fast as her feet would go. She was panting when she reached the window in her bedroom, opera glasses in hand. She trained them on Fifth Avenue; Bragg had already entered the house.
She looked into the first downstairs window—the front hall. It was empty.
She looked at the next two windows, into the smaller drawing room. It too was empty.
No, it was not. She stared, seeing Bragg standing there, silhouetted against the window. He wasn’t moving, and she had a perfect view of his profile.
He stood and stood and she realized his mouth seemed to be moving. He was speaking to someone she could not see. Darnation!
Francesca assumed it was Burton or Eliza. And then Eliza came rushing forward.
He had been speaking to Eliza, she thought. And then she froze.
Eliza did not stop. She walked right into his arms.
He held her tightly, cradling her against his body, her face flat upon his chest.
There was no doubt she was crying, just as there was no doubt that he was comforting her.