by Brenda Joyce
Mary nodded, but said, “We have told you everything. There is simply nothing more to tell.”
Henrietta started to cry. Mary clasped her hand tightly. She had a wide but narrow mouth, which was pursed very tightly. Her hair was pulled back tightly in an unfashionable and unkempt chignon.
“Miss Cahill.” Bragg smiled and inclined his head.
“Good day, then,” Francesca managed, watching him walk out. She knew he had tried to tell her something privately, and the fact thrilled her. Unfortunately, she did not know what he had intended to communicate. When he was gone, she gave herself a mental kick and smiled at her hostess and her daughter. “May I ask a few questions?”
“Please,” Henrietta said.
“Do you know who wished to kill your husband?”
“No one wished to kill my husband,” Henrietta said firmly. “He was well liked, a kind man.”
“Mother!” Mary cried out in exasperation. “Why do you keep saying that?” She looked angrily at Francesca. “I told the police commissioner, and I will tell you, too. One person hated my father.”
Francesca thought she knew who that one person was. “And that is?”
“His bastard, Calder Hart. My half brother,” she practically spat.
So animosity was a family affair, Francesca thought. She glanced at Henrietta. “Do you feel the same way?”
Henrietta nodded, her gaze downcast, tears sliding down her face. “He has always hated us all.”
“Why? Why did Hart hate his father so?” Francesca asked, although the answer seemed obvious. Still, she wished to hear it from either Henrietta or her daughter.
“Why?” Mary was incredulous. “Why? I’ll tell you why! Because he was a mistake, because Father never wanted him, not then, and not now!”
“Did your father hate Hart, as well?” Francesca felt she had to ask. The family drama was terribly compelling.
“My father did not hate anyone!” Mary cried. “He was a good man, as good as gold! He only thought to please people, and help them. He was a saint!”
Francesca blinked. She supposed she would be speaking of her own father in the same way, she decided, if he had just died. “I am so sorry,” she said again.
Mary sat down beside her mother, crying now into her hands. Her sobs were huge and torn from deep within her. The sobbing turned to terrible moans. Watching her, Francesca felt hugely sympathetic. She could only imagine her own grief when the day came that her father passed on. She knew it was time to leave.
“Perhaps we can finish this another time?” Henrietta asked. She stood. “As you can see, Mary is inconsolable. She was the apple of Paul’s eye. His little girl. We all loved him so; but she, even more.”
Francesca nodded. She whispered, “Mary? I so understand. I adore my own father, too.”
Mary paused, looking up, her face covered with tears. “Then you know I shall never be the same,” she whispered in real anguish.
“Yes, I know.”
Mary covered her face, weeping again.
Henrietta walked out from behind the table in front of the sofa, clearly wishing Francesca to leave them to their mourning.
“Mrs. Randall? How old is Mary?”
“She is eighteen,” Henrietta said, walking Francesca to the door.
And Hart was twenty-six—for Francesca knew he was two years younger than Bragg was. “You have a son, do you not?” Francesca asked.
“Yes, Bill arrived home yesterday afternoon. He attends university in Philadelphia,” she said. Then, proudly, “He will graduate this summer.”
Francesca smiled. So Bill Randall was older—and he was about twenty-one. Five years separated Randall’s affair with Hart’s mother and the birth of his first legitimate child. Francesca wondered when Henrietta had learned that Randall had had a mistress and an illegitimate child, but that did not quite pertain to this case. Had she known about Georgette de Labouche? As it was all over the morning’s papers, Francesca suspected she knew now.
“I would like to speak with him, too, if I may,” Francesca said.
“He’s asleep. Why don’t you come by later this afternoon? We will be through with our dinner by four,” Henrietta said.
“Thank you.” Francesca shook her hand and found herself in the hall with Joel. Their gazes met. She shook her head, warning him not to speak yet, and they walked slowly to the foyer, Francesca thinking about the brief and unenlightening conversation she had just had.
“Miss Cahill?”
Francesca turned at the sound of Mary’s shrill voice.
The very thin, rather gawky blonde hurried to her. “I didn’t want to speak in front of my mother,” she said fiercely. She glared at Joel. “Who is that?”
“He is my assistant. He runs errands for me.” Francesca had become alert. “What is it? What is it that you wish to tell me?”
“I know Hart killed my father—and I know why!” she cried.
“You do?” Francesca asked, surprised.
“Yes, I do,” Mary hissed, low and urgently. “Hart was blackmailing my father, Miss Cahill. I overheard them on the day of the murder, speaking on the street outside of this house. They were arguing about money, the money Hart was demanding my father pay him, the money my father was refusing to pay!”
Francesca stared, the wheels of her mind turning rapidly. “But what could Hart be blackmailing your father for?”
Mary made a disparaging sound. “Who knows? Does it even matter?” She stared. “He is evil, Miss Cahill, evil, just like the Devil. He doesn’t need a reason to torment and torture anyone. He does it with pure joy.”
Francesca looked into her eyes. They were burning with hatred. She drew back, a reaction she could not control. The depth of hostility had frightened her. Somehow, she patted the girl’s bony shoulder. “Thank you, Mary. Thank you very much.”
“Do not thank me.” Mary started to cry again, the sobs frightening, as they so racked her thin body. “Just bring me justice, Miss Cahill. Bring me justice,” she said.
Francesca stepped outside with Joel and faltered. Bragg stood beside his Daimler automobile, speaking with a roundsman.
He saw her and waved at her, clearly indicating that she come over.
So this was what his silent communication had meant. He had been waiting for her, and Francesca hurried to him, smiling, Joel not following.
The roundsman nodded and with a stiff hand to his forehead said, “Yes, sir,” and left them.
Bragg eyed her.
“Do you now have your troops saluting you, Bragg?” she teased.
He laughed. “That is hardly a regulation, Francesca. How are you?”
She thought about Connie—and her mother and the secret Bragg had to be keeping—and she felt her expression fall.
“Is something wrong?”
“Is anything right?” she returned, trying to be arch.
He studied her. Then, “Let me give you a lift. Any progress regarding Miss de Labouche?”
“No,” Francesca said, following him to the passenger car door. What if Joel was wrong about Bragg’s wild-goose chase? “I am debating the many possibilities that exist as to where she has gone, and Joel is also working on it.”
He nodded at her, not looking at her, as he opened the door for her. “And I am sure you will succeed,” he said.
Joel was right, she thought, staring at Bragg. He was trying to send her on a wild-goose chase! She glanced over her shoulder at Joel, who stood beside the townhouse’s front steps, his hands in his pockets. He gave her a warning look, which was easy to read. It said, Don’t tell the copper a thing!
Bragg had opened the door for her, but she did not get in. She fought her need to demand the truth from Bragg. She reminded herself that having a mission given by him, even a bogus one, helped her enormously in her investigation. “Have you spoken with Daisy and Rose this morning?” she managed.
His gaze whipped to hers as he heard how odd and tight her tone was. “Yes, I did. At eight o�
��clock. They hold to their story. I interviewed them separately, and if they are lying, they are doing an excellent job of it.” He regarded her quizzically. “Is something wrong?”
“Whatever could be wrong?” She smiled far too archly. “Come, Joel.”
He slowly approached the car while Bragg stared at her, clearly not believing her words. “I’ll meet you, if you need me later,” he said.
“I am sure that I do need you. Bragg will be more than happy to give you a ride, won’t you, Bragg?” She smiled at him.
“Please,” Bragg said, clearly reluctant.
“I’ll meet you uptown,” Joel said with a scowl. He turned and broke into a run.
“Joel!” Francesca cried.
“Later, lady,” he said, disappearing around the block.
Francesca faced Bragg with her hands on her hips. “There. Look at what you have done.”
He seemed to be trying not to chuckle. “Just what have I done? Kennedy did not want a ride—it had nothing to do with me.”
“You could have been more pleasant,” she said hotly.
“Are you angry with me, Francesca?” he asked cautiously. “And if so, why?”
Instead of answering, she slipped into the plush leather seat, staring straight ahead. Should she be angry with him for his pretending to want her help? Yes, she should. But she must keep her anger to herself.
Besides, that was more annoying than anything else. Knowing Bragg as she did, he probably thought to keep her out of harm’s way by sending her after Georgette. Her anger ran deeper than that. Why had he told her yesterday that he wished merely to be friends?
“No, I am not angry with you.” Francesca sighed. “Perhaps Hart was with them, as he claims he was.”
“I still hope so.” He smiled at her again and it reached his golden eyes.
In that moment, she realized he was the most attractive man she had ever met, and that included Hart and Montrose, two other magnificent men. She had heard somewhere that the Braggs had Apache blood, and she could see it clearly in his extraordinarily high cheekbones. His golden coloring— the eyes, the sun-kissed skin, the hair—combined with his unusual features made him far more than good-looking; he was striking, in a most original manner. “You are quite chipper, today.”
“It is Sunday. I enjoy Sundays—especially when I have a feisty crime-solver extraordinaire to investigate a murder with.” He was teasing her now.
“Bragg! What is going on?”
He sighed. “Francesca, I am usually in a good frame of mind. It is only when I am extremely pressed and tired that I become somewhat grim.” Then he added, “Besides, I have had some time to adjust to the fact that every time I turn around, I will find you in my shadow.” His eyes twinkled now. He continued to lean over her door.
‘‘You did ask for my help,” she pointed out, then bit her lip.
“Yes, I did.” He looked away. Joel was so very right.
“Bragg, have you seen the morning’s papers?”
He slammed her door closed. “Yes, I have.”
She was surprised.
“I learn quickly, Francesca. And I learned during the Burton Affair that I must have a thick skin—and do what I think is right—if I am to succeed in this appointment. If I let every headline-hungry reporter ruin my day, I may as well find a new means of employment now.”
She felt grim—for him. His burdens were great—and unfair. But she supposed it came with such a public and controversial job. “Will you rescue yourself from the Randall investigation, Bragg?”
He smiled. “No.”
She wondered what would happen if Hart became even more of a suspect than Kurland claimed he was. “Kurland wishes to hang Hart even as we speak.”
“I don’t think so. Kurland wants to sell newspapers.” He gave her another lingering glance and walked to the front of the roadster, pulling on his driving gloves.
Francesca felt a thrill, in spite of his words yesterday. That look had been impossibly warm. How could she be mistaken? Bragg was fond of her. She felt so certain. She so wanted to ask him just what was holding him back—but she was too afraid of the answer to dare to do so. She watched him cranking the car. The engine came to life.
He hurried around the nose and climbed in. He eased out into the heavy traffic passing by them. A huge lorry was causing quite a traffic jam.
“Why did you leave me alone with Mrs. Randall and her daughter?”
He looked over his shoulder and then passed a four-in-hand, zipping in front of an old-fashioned and shabby gig. “I think you know why.”
She did, and it pleased her immensely. “You felt I would have more success with the two women than you would.”
He grinned. “And what have you learned?”
“Hart was blackmailing Randall.”
Bragg almost swerved into an electric trolley. “Francesca! Must you always be so dramatic?”
“Sorry.” She grinned, even though she gripped the sides of her seat.
“Please elaborate.” He slowed as they crept into the very busy Fourth Avenue intersection. A policeman saw the Daimler, obviously recognized it, and halted all other traffic. He waved Bragg through.
“Mary says she overheard Hart and her father arguing on the street on the day of the murder—in the morning. She says Hart was blackmailing Randall, and they were arguing over money.” She looked at him.
He returned her look. “That is impossible.”
“That Hart would blackmail his own father?”
“No. It is impossible that they argued Friday morning here in New York.”
Francesca twisted in the seat. “Why?”
“Hart could not have been in the city before early Friday afternoon. He had business in Baltimore, I know, because I saw him there Thursday night, as I had business there as well. Trains do not run north to New York after eleven P.M.”
“Are you certain?” Francesca asked, the implication dawning upon her now.
“Yes.”
She wondered what had taken him so briefly to Baltimore. “Bragg, you do realize this means Mary is lying?”
“I do. And interestingly, she chose to lie to you. She said not a word to me.” He gave her another long look.
“Whatever that means,” Francesca said, returning his gaze. It was impossible not to feel that they were partners now. Their discussion of the case was a frank one, and he was including her, not excluding her. It was amazing, but in spite of all of her worries, not the least of which involved Bragg’s feelings for her, in that moment she felt so pleased to be with him, even thrilled.
She might almost expect birds to break into song around them, it felt like that kind of day. Except, of course, that they were in the dead of winter.
He turned onto Madison Avenue, where they were crushed between an omnibus, a coach, and a trolley. The traffic was very slow. “She was very shy in my presence,” he mused. “She strikes me as quite a mouse. I am quite certain she is afraid of men, or even resentful of them, the exception being her dear and departed father.”
Francesca blinked. “She adored Randall, that is clear. She was not shy with me, Bragg. In fact, she was very voluble— and very angry. She despises Hart.”
“An apparent family condition.” Then, “She might despise all men.”
Francesca hesitated, then said, “I am not defending Calder. But... I do not quite believe that he hates his father, and I believe his callous reaction to the news of his murder was a cover for other, more complicated feelings.”
Bragg stared. “So now it is ‘Calder’?”
She flushed. “Please. You almost sound jealous, Bragg.”
“Jealous? Francesca, have you lost your mind? I am not jealous of my brother. Not in the least.”
She sincerely doubted that. In fact, whenever she mentioned Hart’s name it seemed to set Bragg off. Even though it was misplaced, Francesca hoped that some of Bragg’s jealousy involved her. It felt as if that was the case. “Well, that is good.” She smiled
but turned away so he would not see, looking out her window, and said, “As you have nothing to be jealous of.”
He was silent.
She stole a glance at him.
He turned and caught her eye. Their gazes held, and it seemed potent.
Francesca turned away, breathless. Sharing a case was wonderful, but she wanted so much more. Perhaps she should take on another investigation—one of her own.
She tensed at the thought. She remained afraid now, afraid of what she would find if she dared to delve into Bragg’s life. Besides, it felt wrong. If he wanted her to know something, he would tell her directly; she felt sure of it.
And they were friends now. That much was clear. Surely when the time was right, he would tell her whatever it was that was holding him back.
“So what is distracting you, Francesca?” he asked softly.
She jerked, startled.
“You have seemed very anxious today. What is it? Can I help?”
Francesca hesitated and then blurted, “Oh, Bragg! It is family matters.”
“Oh.” He hesitated. “I am happy to lend a shoulder,” he said with a small smile. “Even though I know you despise weepy females.”
They were on 61st Street. From where they idled in the creeping traffic Francesca could see the Montrose house. She imagined using his shoulder to cry upon. Perhaps she should engage in some theatrics. She sighed, knowing she could not be that coy. “Well, I do believe Evan is still carrying on with his mistress.”
“He is not married,” Bragg said.
“But he is engaged! His affair should end!” She stared at him.
Bragg said, with a smile, “From your point of view, perhaps. I doubt he feels compelled to be loyal to Miss Channing until after his vows are said.”