Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  Her heart slammed as she faced forward, for this was her chance, indeed.

  “How can I answer you?” Culhane was asking sadly. “We all know God works in mysterious ways.”

  Francesca whispered in Hart’s ear. “I will be right back.” And before he could respond, she leaped to her feet and slipped past him. Once in the aisle, she hurried out of the church.

  Daisy stood on the top step, waiting for her. Francesca was breathless as she closed the church doors behind her. “Did you know Kate Sullivan?”

  “No,” Daisy said with a small shrug. “How would I know her? We hardly walked in the same salons,” she said with some superiority.

  Francesca took a deep breath. There was no small amount of dread as she faced the other woman now. “Then why are you here?”

  “To pay my respects.” Her expression was truly remarkable—absolutely impassive, with no hint of what she might be feeling, but there was a glint in her eyes, and it was, perhaps, smug.

  Francesca knew that there was no reason for Daisy to be present at Kate’s funeral. Then she corrected herself. There was a reason: Hart. But would she have guessed that Hart was attending?

  Maybe Daisy was present because she, Francesca, was there. “Why are you really here?”

  Daisy shrugged. “It’s terrible, the Slasher murdering such good, honest, godly women, as Father Culhane said.”

  She did not care. Francesca wondered why she had ever, even briefly, liked this woman. “Why did you go to Hart’s office?”

  Daisy smiled at her and said softly, “He’s my benefactor. We had matters to discuss.”

  They were enemies, Francesca thought, deadly enemies. She didn’t see it in the other woman’s expression, but she somehow knew it in her heart. She knew it the way she knew that she loved Calder Hart with all of her heart and that she would not let this woman come between them. Francesca stared and said slowly, “Why don’t you tell me what you want? Clearly, you came outside to speak with me. Clearly, you came to this funeral to see me.”

  “No,” Daisy said softly. “It is Calder I came to see. It is Calder I want.”

  The gauntlet had been thrown. “Did you go to his office to beg him to take you back?” Francesca demanded.

  “I have never begged any man for anything,” Daisy said with vast superiority. “I have never had to beg any man for anything. I always get what I want, Francesca.”

  She was as rigid as a board, uncomfortably so. “And you want Hart back?”

  Daisy smiled at her. “When he tires of you, I expect him back,” she said simply.

  Francesca wet her lips. “So you failed to seduce him. You did try to seduce him in his office, didn’t you?”

  “I am hardly that naive,” she laughed.

  “Then what happened?” Francesca cried, shaking.

  Daisy’s eyes turned ugly. “Hart is no different from me, Francesca. He thinks to reform. He is smitten with you, for some reason, and he thinks to become a gentleman like all the others. Well, he can’t! This man has an appetite for very unusual fare. Feed him a constant diet of beef and chicken and he will die for lack of variety! Your bed will soon bore him, Francesca. How much clearer do I need to be?”

  Francesca hugged herself. “Maybe he was once that way. But he is tired of that life.” She heard how hesitant and uncertain she sounded, because in truth, she believed Daisy. It was not that she thought that Hart was depraved, but that he would soon come to find her boring. With such a man, it simply seemed inevitable.

  “I don’t think so. A leopard cannot change his spots.” Daisy said, and she was far too sure of herself. And then she laughed, shaking her head. “You are so innocent! Hart is jaded, terribly jaded, and he cannot reform, not for you, not for anyone. Give him time and you shall see the real Hart return. You have created a mere impostor and you clearly know it as much as I do.”

  Her heart beat with sickening force and she turned away. She could not find her voice to insist that the Hart she knew was good, even kind and noble. In fact, she could not think of a single reply.

  Daisy laughed. “Enjoy him while you can, my dear. Enjoy his bed while you can, as he is so magnificent. And continue to lie to yourself. I am sure you will do so for a long time.”

  She almost clapped her hands over her ears. “You’re wrong,” she managed to say knowing how pitiful her response was. “I know you are wrong.” But even her tone seemed weak.

  Daisy seized her wrist. “That night will come that he does not return home when you expect him. And he will have a perfect excuse. And you will accept it, of course you will, but deep in your heart you will know he was with someone else.” And she smiled tightly at her.

  Francesca jerked away. “How can you be so cruel? Once, we were friends!” She reached for the door of the church, only too late realizing that the last place she wished to go was inside. She did not want Hart to even guess at the conversation that had just taken place.

  Daisy pressed on the door before she could pull it open. And she leaned so close Francesca felt her arm against her and her breath on her ear. “You are so upset,” she whispered maliciously. “So distraught! Why? Because your little fairy tale is over? Because you must now hold on to Hart with your finger tips as he slips slowly but surely away?”

  “What do you want?” Francesca cried furiously, twisting to face her. But now they were face-to-face and far too close for comfort.

  Daisy never stopped smiling. “I told you.”

  “No, I don’t believe it. If you really wanted Calder, you would simply wait this out.” She sucked down air. She was shaking. “This is about revenge, isn’t it?”

  Daisy stared, no longer smiling. Then she leaned close, her lips almost on her cheek. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  DAISY HAD LEFT AND Francesca stood alone on the church steps, shaken to the core. She finally gave up and sat down, as her knees and legs seemed useless.

  Daisy was dangerous, oh yes. That morning at the Lord and Taylor store, she had made Francesca doubt her own value and her relationship with Hart. Today, it was even worse. No matter how she might try to convince herself otherwise, Francesca knew that Daisy was right and that Hart was going to quickly tire of her.

  And in the future, either near or far, that night would come—a night of lies she would choose to believe, a night spent in the arms of another woman.

  She closed her eyes, desperately wishing she could find some faith in her fiancé. And a part of her stubbornly refused to cave in. A part of her shouted back that Hart was fine and good and misunderstood, and he was as noble as any other gentleman.

  She inhaled hard, opening her eyes and seeing a cheerful blue sky with cotton-candy clouds. And she began to think and analyze, which was what she did best. Hart had been fine on Friday morning. He had not been fine that evening, at her sister’s charity affair. They had been at odds ever since. And he had seen Daisy on Friday afternoon in his offices.

  Clearly he had refused to be seduced. But had he been tempted? Francesca did not know what to think. But somehow Daisy had upset him, too. He had been having grave doubts about their future ever since that time, but was this all Daisy’s doing? Just what, exactly, was he thinking—and why?

  Behind her, the church doors suddenly opened and a dozen people began coming out. Francesca quickly stepped to the side to let them pass. Randolph was one of the first gentlemen to leave the church and he paused on the sidewalk, hands in his trouser pockets, watching the funeral guests as they left. Francesca assumed he was waiting for Gwen.

  Hart walked out. He came directly to her, his regard searching. “What happened?”

  She forced a smile. “I needed some air.”

  “You were with Daisy,” he exclaimed. “I am hardly a fool. What happened?”

  She opened her mouth but no words came out, as she had not a clue what to do or say.

  He took her arm. “You are very distressed,” he said harshly. “Francesca, that woman is not to be believed or tru
sted.”

  “I know,” she whispered, and impulsively she hugged him, burying her face against the rock-solid wall of his chest.

  He held her loosely, one large hand cradling the back of her head beneath her hat. “I am going to take care of Daisy,” he said.

  She looked up and smiled at him. He wiped what must have been a stray tear from her cheek and they stepped apart. As she turned, she saw Bridget and Gwen walking past them, David Hanrahan directly behind them. If Gwen knew her husband was there, she gave no sign. She had eyes only for Randolph. She smiled at him, her pace increasing as she went down the steps.

  Randolph stared at her.

  Someone shouted—it was David Hanrahan. He rushed past Gwen and seized Randolph, throwing him backward against a parked carriage. “Fucking bastard!” he cried, his hands on Randolph’s throat.

  Randolph tried to break his grip.

  “David!” Gwen screamed. “Stop! Stop, please, stop!”

  Hart rushed down the steps, Francesca reacting a moment afterward and following him. As Hart reached Hanrahan, Bragg raced past her, and together they pulled him off Randolph. Hart stepped back as Bragg threw Hanrahan down on the street.

  Two officers in uniform appeared, standing ominously over him. Hanrahan sat up, panting. “You stay away from her!” he shouted past Bragg and the policemen at Randolph.

  Randolph gave him a disdainful look and turned to Gwen. “I’m all right,” he said very quietly.

  Gwen’s face was a mask of anguish, her feelings terribly clear. She was obviously in love.

  Francesca had reached Hart’s side, but she strained to hear. Randolph said, low, “Can I give you a lift home?”

  Gwen nodded, smiling, the stars shining in her eyes.

  Francesca was very dismayed for Gwen. Now she prayed Randolph was not their man. “Are you all right?” she asked Hart.

  “I’m fine,” he said, also glancing at the unlikely couple. Randolph was greeting Bridget with a smile. The girl did not seem to know what to do. Her gaze kept wavering between the handsome Irish nobleman and her father, who was now standing and in handcuffs.

  Francesca hurried over to Bragg. “Take him downtown,” he said in disgust to the officer holding Hanrahan.

  “I done nothing wrong!” Hanrahan was incredulous. “That fancy bastard is after my wife and daughter.”

  Bragg ignored him, facing Francesca. “I’m going to lock him up for the night and let him ponder his poor temper,” he said.

  She nodded. It seemed like a good idea, especially considering Gwen might very well be in Randolph’s bed before the hour was out. “Where is Randolph’s tail?”

  “He’s here, but in civvies. Francesca, don’t worry,” he said quietly. “We won’t lose him.”

  She nodded, but all she could do was fret. It was hard to gauge if she was worried about Gwen or herself.

  You must now hold on to Hart with your fingertips as he slips slowly but surely away.

  Francesca inhaled harshly, hating the echo of Daisy’s words, so cruel and loud and clear in her mind.

  “Miss Cahill?” a woman whispered from behind.

  Francesca turned in surprise and met Francis O’Leary’s wide brown eyes. “Hello,” she said with a smile.

  Francis did not smile back. She glanced over her shoulder and Francesca followed her gaze somewhat curiously. She quickly realized that she was looking at Sam Wilson, who was chatting on the church steps with Father Culhane. “What is it?” she asked, realizing that Francis wished to speak with her alone.

  Francis looked ready to cry. “I lied,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry! I lied—Sam did not spend the night at my flat like I said he did on Thursday night.”

  Francesca stared in surprise and then her eyes veered to Wilson, who was now leaving the steps. Sam Wilson had no alibi for the night of Kate’s murder.

  And then she tensed. A gentleman had just emerged from the church, and while she felt certain she did not know him, he was vaguely familiar.

  Bragg had come to stand beside her. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured, staring at the young man. And then comprehension came in a blaze of light, shocking her with its utter clarity.

  The photograph in Farr’s hands…at John Sullivan’s flat…the photograph of Kate Sullivan and a young man!

  “Who is that?” she cried, but she was already racing toward him as he came down the gray stone steps. Bragg followed. She paid no mind. “Excuse me, sir!” she called.

  He paused before her, an elegant eyebrow raised. “I beg your pardon?” He had the cultivated tone of one who had at tended the finest Eastern schools.

  It was him, the gentleman from the photograph. “Sir, I am Francesca Cahill, a sleuth. I am investigating Kate Sullivan’s death, among others,” she said. “How did you know the deceased?”

  He tugged on his kidskin gloves until they were without a single wrinkle and only then did he look up. His eyes were bright blue. “Once, a long time ago, she was my sister,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sunday, April 27, 1902 2:00 p.m.

  FRANCESCA BLINKED IN disbelief. “Kate was your sister?”

  Hart had joined her and Bragg. The gentleman shrugged. “I’m afraid so.”

  Now, Francesca could only stare. How had working-class Kate come from the same family as this gentleman?

  Bragg stepped into the fray. “I’m Rick Bragg, commissioner of police,” he said. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  “Thank you,” the man said. “I’m Frank Pierson.”

  “Would you mind explaining how Kate wound up a shop girl and the wife of John Sullivan?”

  Pierson’s jaw tightened. “I’d rather not. This is a dismal day, sir.”

  Bragg reached out to restrain him before he could turn and leave. “Sir,” he said very softly, “I am afraid I was not clear. I am not giving you an option. Please explain why a woman from such a genteel background married a man like Sullivan and lived in the financial circumstances that she did.”

  Pierson smiled. “I’m sorry. I am distraught. You see, I haven’t seen Kate in years, not until now.”

  “How many years?” Bragg asked.

  “She ran off with a scoundrel, sir, five years ago. He was from a good family, but disowned for his absolutely immoralways. The day she left was the day my family disowned her,” he said with some vehemence. “She broke our hearts,” he added.

  “What happened to this scoundrel?” Francesca asked. “Surely it wasn’t Sullivan?”

  “Of course not,” Pierson said quickly, smiling a little. “His name was Bradley Hunter. He left her shortly after. I believe he resides in Paris. She, of course, was ruined, and I imagine that she had no choice but to marry Sullivan.”

  “You imagine?” Francesca’s own heart began to break for Kate. “Did you not speak to her when Hunter left her? Surely you went after her and tried to bring her home.”

  “I did no such thing,” he said coldly. His eyes had turned to ice. “She may be buried today, Miss Cahill, but the fact is my family buried her five years ago, on February 14, the day she chose to run off with Hunter. That morning at breakfast was the last time I saw her and the last time I spoke to her.” His face was rigid. He nodded at Bragg. “Have I sufficiently answered your questions, sir?”

  “In a moment,” Bragg said. “Where were you last Thursday night, Mr. Pierson?”

  BRAGG LED THE WAY into his office, but paused at the door. Francesca followed him inside, barely aware of her surroundings, her mind racing. She was analyzing every moment spent with Frank Pierson. When Hart walked in, Bragg shut the door behind him.

  Francesca faced both men thoughtfully. “His alibi is ironclad.”

  “Yes, it is ironclad,” Bragg said.

  “And convenient,” Hart murmured. “Having supper at home with his dear elderly mother while his sister was murdered.”

  “There was a house filled with staff,” Francesca said. �
�The cook, the housekeeper, the butler and a valet.”

  “And two housemaids.” Hart was wry.

  “He has an alibi forevery night the Slasher attacked,” Francesca cried. “On Mondays, he always attends the Lions Club.”

  Bragg went to his desk but did not sit down. “Newman is verifying every alibi, but I feel certain no one will admit that Pierson was not where he said he was when he said he was there.”

  Francesca raced over to him. “This is too sweet! Here is our first suspect with solid alibis—which is exactly why I suspect him.”

  Bragg smiled a little at her. “I agree,” he said softly.

  She smiled back, her every instinct telling her now that they had their man. Kate Sullivan had been conned by a scoundrel and had foolishly run away from home. Apparently, her brother had never forgiven her. It was unbelievable that she had not been allowed back home when Bradley Hunter had abandoned her as swiftly as he had seduced her. According to Pierson, their father had died six months later of a broken heart, apparently losing his will to live. He had suffered a stroke a few months before Kate’s lapse from propriety, but had been recuperating until then. And to this day, Mrs. Pierson, Kate’s mother, suffered from grave melancholia. And it was all Kate’s fault—according to her brother.

  “I concur,” Hart said, moving to stand beside Francesca and interrupting her thoughts. “He probably put in an appearance at his gentleman’s club, but I doubt anyone would know precisely when he arrived or when he left. His staff undoubtedly fear dismissal should they go against his word. His alibis are utterly pat.”

  Francesca smiled at him, too. Then she turned to Bragg, “How will we proceed?”

  “I will have a plainclothes officer keep an eye on him as well. I have only one problem,” he said. “What’s that?”

  “Why the hell would he come to Kate’s funeral and reveal his hand?”

  They stared at one another for a moment. Bragg’s telephone began to ring. He went to get it. Francesca looked at Hart. “He has made a mistake. They all do, eventually—or at least, the ones who get caught.”