Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  Francesca was filled with tension. She had the worst feeling that Kurland not only knew that she and Bragg were fond of each other, but he also knew about Bragg’s marital state.

  “You are losing your ability to sniff out news,” Bragg said. “Yes, we are investigating a case. Francesca is with me as Miss Channing is affianced to her brother.”

  “Did something happen to Miss Channing?” Kurland asked, wide-eyed with interest.

  “Her studio was broken into,” Bragg said. “Good day, Kurland.” He drove away from the curb.

  Francesca twisted to watch Kurland, who stood at the curb, scribbling on a notepad. She saw him turn and hurry toward the Channing house.

  She was filled with dread. She turned, facing Bragg. “He saw us holding hands.”

  Bragg was grim. “You are right.”

  The Van Arke home was in the Georgian style and probably dated to the first decades after the last turn of the century. Francesca and Bragg hurried up the walk, where he used the door’s bell. Francesca studied him and knew he was still disturbed by everything that had transpired last night.

  The door was opened, and a manservant stood there. Bragg introduced them both, presenting himself in his official capacity. They were ushered inside and told that Mrs. Van Arke would be told that they were waiting. No mention was made of Mr. Van Arke.

  The parlor was pleasant. One glance told Francesca that the Count Benevente’s daughter was well-to-do but not wealthy. She was a step above most gentry, not more.

  “Isn’t Bartolla very wealthy?” Francesca asked Bragg in a whisper.

  “It seems so.”

  “Did the count—Mrs. Van Arke’s father—leave her everything?”

  “I do not know. Appearances can be deceiving,” he returned softly.

  She nodded and then turned as steps and rustling silk could be heard behind her.

  An attractive woman with olive skin and dark blond hair stood on the threshold, smiling uncertainly and perhaps even anxiously. “Commissioner?”

  Bragg hurried forward. “Mrs. Van Arke, thank you very much for taking the time to see myself and Miss Cahill.”

  She extracted her hand from his and glanced at Francesca, clearly confused. “It is hardly common for me to have the police commissioner of this city in my salon,” she said in a husky voice. Although she was an Italian, the only accent that was discernible was a British one, which told Francesca that she had been educated in Great Britain. Francesca thought that she was in her early thirties.

  “And I am afraid we are here on official police business,” Bragg said.

  Mrs. Van Arke smiled, and it was strained. She folded her arms across her ample bosom but did not move into the room.

  When she did not ask what that business was, Bragg glanced at Francesca, then said, “When was the last time you were in contact with Joseph Craddock?”

  Her expression did not change. “I beg your pardon?”

  He repeated the question while Francesca wondered at her response.

  “I am afraid I do not know who you are talking about,” she said tersely.

  “Perhaps your memory is merely escaping you,” Bragg said kindly. Francesca felt certain that not only did Mrs. Van Arke recall Craddock, but she also wasn’t all that surprised by their questions about him. “I do believe a Jane Van Arke of Number Two-fifty Fifth Avenue filed a complaint against Joseph Craddock on April the eighth, 1900,” he said.

  She stared. And then, dropping her eyes, she said, “You are referring to something in my past. I made a mistake.”

  “Yes, for you dropped the complaint one month later,” Bragg said.

  Jane Van Arke went to the pale blue silk sofa, which almost matched her dress, where she sat down. “I told you, it was a mistake.”

  Bragg moved to the sofa. “Mrs. Van Arke, please help us. We are afraid that another woman is currently in a similar predicament.”

  She paled. “There is another young woman … He is blackmailing a young woman?”

  “A young woman with three small children,” Francesca said gravely, even though they weren’t certain. “Worse, he has accosted her.”

  “I have two sons,” Jane Van Arke suddenly said. She stood, wringing her hands. “They are twelve and fourteen now, but then they were two years younger, and he made it very clear he would harm them if I did not simply pay him off and drop my complaint.”

  Bragg laid his palm on her shoulder. “Thank you, Mrs. Van Arke. Will you give us a complete statement?”

  She turned wide eyes upon him. “I don’t know.”

  “It will be classified. He will never know you were the one to give us our information,” Bragg said.

  She hesitated, darted a look at Francesca, and said, “There is nothing more to say.”

  Francesca said, “Mrs. Van Arke? You are clearly afraid of Craddock. Does this mean that you have not seen him in two years?”

  She hesitated again. Then she shook her head.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Francesca asked softly but persistently.

  She sighed and sat abruptly down. “I don’t know.” She did not look at either of them now.

  Francesca met Bragg’s stare. The woman was lying—or hiding something.

  “It would be very helpful if you could tell us,” Bragg said.

  “I don’t know!” She stood. “He is a terrible man. Evil. He has no conscience. I was afraid for my sons. I do not want him back in my life!”

  “Is he still extorting money from you?” Bragg asked.

  She stared at him, then shook her head.

  Francesca had the awful feeling that he was. “Mrs. Van Arke? Do you know who would want to hurt Bartolla Benevente?”

  Jane Van Arke whirled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We think your stepmother might be in danger,” Francesca said.

  Jane Van Arke flushed. “I see. Craddock is blackmailing her!”

  Francesca looked at Bragg. Their gazes locked. Why hadn’t they considered this possibility? Francesca went to the Italian woman and put her hand on her arm. “Poor Bartolla,” she said, hoping to gain a response from the Italian woman.

  Jane Van Arke gave her an incredulous look. “She is merely getting what she deserves.”

  Francesca almost winced; clearly Bartolla had not exaggerated when she said that her stepdaughter hated her. “Isn’t that a bit excessive?” Francesca asked, after she and Bragg shared a look.

  “Excessive? That tramp is the worst thing that ever happened to my father! She bled him for every penny he had, then did as she pleased behind his back—and he knew about her lovers! Oh, yes. The count was a brilliant man, until the end, and he knew his little American wife was a whore. That is what she is, a whore,” Jane Van Arke cried passionately. “And I hope Craddock takes her for all that he can get.”

  Well, Francesca thought, at least they knew where Mrs. Van Arke stood as far as Bartolla went.

  “Where were you Thursday night, between midnight and five A.M.?” Bragg asked quietly.

  She started, as if she had forgotten his presence, and flushed. “Commissioner, excuse me. I did not mean to go on so. It’s just that I adored my father, and it hurt me to see her using him the way that she did.”

  “I understand,” Bragg said. “Thursday night, after midnight?” he prompted.

  Her brows furrowed. “Why would it matter where I was that night?”

  “Would you please answer the question?” he said, his tone extremely mild.

  She glanced at Francesca and shrugged. “I was here, at home, asleep.”

  “Can Mr. Van Arke testify to that?”

  “Can … what?” She straightened. “My husband is out of the country, Commissioner. He is in London and will not return for another month.”

  “Thank you,” Bragg said.

  Jane Van Arke glanced between Francesca and Bragg again, seeming bewildered. “You’re welcome.”

  “I think that is all for now,” Bragg said. He thanked her
again for her time.

  She walked them to the door. “There is one thing I don’t understand,” she said.

  “What is that?”

  “Why the two of you are here, asking me the same questions as that other gentleman?”

  Francesca halted so quickly that Bragg smashed into her back. They both turned to face their hostess. “What gentleman?” she asked.

  “Chief Farr.”

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 — JUST AFTER NOON

  Francesca entered the house and heard her mother shouting. She froze.

  Julia never shouted. She did not have to. Her will was iron and far too strong for anyone to resist her.

  But she was shouting. Francesca had just heard her. She turned to look at Francis, the new doorman, who was pale and pretending to be deaf and a statue. “Francis? What is going on?”

  He came to life. “Your parents, Miss Cahill. They have forgotten to shut the door.”

  She looked in the direction he indicated and realized they were in the salon at the opposite end of the hall. She knew instantly what they were arguing about. And that was another thing—her parents rarely argued.

  Either Julia allowed Andrew to have his way, or he allowed her to do so.

  They had to be arguing about Evan.

  Gingerly, Francesca approached the open doors and, pausing on the threshold, saw her father standing with his arms akimbo, his back to a window. Julia confronted him. “This is your entire fault, Andrew,” she said harshly, not shouting now. “You have done this. You have chased him out of the house—our house—my house! And I will not allow it!” And then she had shouted again.

  “He cannot break off his engagement and leave the company and simply get away with it. It is utter disrespect!” Andrew returned harshly, but keeping his voice lowered. “We agreed on the engagement, Julia. You have been happy that our wayward son will finally have to become a man!” And his voice had verged upon a shout.

  “I should not have agreed. I told you she was wrong for him. But oh, no, you did insist, and I stupidly let you have your way! I will not let Evan move out! He is my son—our son—how could you do this? How?”

  Francesca gaped, as her mother seemed on the verge of tears. She never cried. In fact, Francesca had grown up assuming her mother did not have tear ducts.

  “He did not give me a choice!” Andrew cried. “He marched into my office and began to threaten me. He threatened me, Julia! I know that you pretend he can do no wrong, but Evan is dissolute. Dissolute! He is the most irresponsible young man I have ever seen! Irresponsible and dissolute!”

  “Don’t you dare call him dissolute! And if he threatened you—” She stopped. “I am sure he did not mean it!” She was shouting now. “You have always disliked him!” Julia was furious. “You adore Francesca—she can catch a killer with a fry pan, and nothing comes of it! Oh, no, she makes the newspapers, and you are proud of her! And Connie, well, you are vastly fond of her—but then, she never does anything wrong, thank goodness. But Evan, why, as a child, Evan’s grades were not high enough, his friends were not good enough, he could not throw a football far enough, and now he does not work hard or long enough … . My son is always failing!”

  “That is because he is usually wrong. That is because he has no ambition. Good God, how can you be defending him now? Evan has two interests, period. Two vices! Cheap women and gaming. His standards of behavior are less than acceptable,” Andrew finally shouted back. “And they always have been less than acceptable to me.”

  Francesca actually clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop! The two of you, please, stop!”

  Neither one heard her. Julia pointed her finger at him. “I warn you, Andrew, if he leaves this house, then I shall, too.”

  “Mama!” Francesca gasped, rushing forward.

  Andrew turned white with shock. And without another word, he turned his back on his wife. A window faced him. But the draperies were drawn.

  Francesca grasped Julia’s hands and saw the tears in her mother’s eyes. “Mama, come outside. Let’s talk,” she said, at the same time wanting to rush over to her father and hug him and reassure him that all would be well.

  Julia nodded, casting an angry and tearful glance at Andrew’s rigid back, and the moment they were in the hall, she collapsed on a tufted settee, set against one wall. “How could he do this? How could Andrew let Evan walk out?” She covered her face with her hands and her small shoulders shook.

  And for one moment, Francesca was simply frozen, stunned to see her mother so distraught, in such emotional pain. Then she wrapped her arm around her and held her close. The two women were exactly the same size, with Julia being but a few pounds heavier. “Mama,” Francesca said urgently, taking her hands. Julia looked up. “Evan threatened Father. It’s true. And of course that wasn’t right. But he was desperate to get out of his engagement, and can we truly blame him? When Father would not back down, Evan made good on his threats.”

  “I do not blame Evan for any of this,” Julia said heavily.

  “But don’t blame Papa, either! He only wants Evan to cease gambling and begin a family.”

  “I know what your father wants,” Julia said. “Your father wants Evan to be exactly like him, a one-woman man, a family man, a success, and a reformer.”

  Francesca stared.

  “Evan is not like your father, Francesca. He is far more …” she hesitated, then said, “ebullient than your father ever was. He is young. He is only twenty-four going on twenty-five. This is my fault, too! I should have never agreed to this match.” She closed her eyes tightly.

  “Do not blame yourself for anything! After all, it is Evan’s fault, too, for incurring those terrible debts. But let us look at the bright side,” Francesca tried.

  Julia opened her eyes. “There is no bright side.”

  “Yes, there is. I mean, what has happened is truly terrible, but it is certainly for the best that he and Sarah do not wed, even if it had to happen this way.”

  “I cannot lose him,” Julia said, and Francesca knew she meant her son and not Andrew.

  “Mama, you will not lose Evan! He loves you so! He even told me that he would never allow this argument to affect your relationship.”

  “He simply cannot move out, Francesca,” Julia said, her eyes wide with fear.

  “I tried to talk him out of it. He will not change his mind. I have never seen him so resolute,” she said, and did not add “or so angry.”

  “But what if he never returns?” Julia asked.

  Their gazes locked. “Of course he will come back. But for now, he feels he must make a stand. In a way, I am proud of him. Aren’t you? He has never gone up against Father before.”

  “Proud of him? You are proud of him? How can you be proud of him when he has walked out on his familial obligations?” Julia gasped. “He has walked out on us!”

  Francesca would not back down. “I am proud of him. Mama? Please, don’t fight with Papa over this. He is hurt, too.”

  Julia seemed to be recovering her near iron composure. “I have just set a terrible example, Francesca. One never argues with one’s spouse as I have done. There are other ways to achieve one’s objectives.”

  Francesca blinked.

  “One always gains more with honey than with vinegar.” Julia appeared grimly worried now.

  “Of course,” Francesca said.

  Julia gave her a look. “Of course, after twenty-four years, it is only human to make a mistake.”

  Francesca nodded. “And what about Papa?”

  “He must go to Evan and tell him that we will end the engagement, but Evan shall agree to find another, suitable, bride.”

  Francesca stared. “He will never back down. Papa is a benevolent man, but beneath those whiskery cheeks is a will of steel.”

  “If he wishes for peace in this household, why, that is what he shall do,” Julia said firmly, standing.

  “He is never going to change his mind,” Francesca said with dread.
/>   Suddenly Andrew came out of the salon. He did not look at them as he approached and then passed them. He said, “Francis, my coat, hat, and walking stick.”

  Julia stood. Her tone was now calm. “Where are you going, Andrew? We have a conversation to finish.”

  For the first time that Francesca could ever recall, her father did not answer her mother. He stood before the front door, his back to them, patiently waiting for all that he had asked for—as if he had not heard them.

  “Papa,” Francesca whispered.

  “Andrew! Where are you going?” Her tone became strident.

  His shoulders tensed. He did not turn. “Out,” he said.

  Francis handed him his coat and hat and then, after he had donned his coat, his silver-headed cane.

  “That is hardly an answer,” Julia said, her eyes wide. “I apologize for how I have argued with you but not for what I have said. I must insist that we finish our conversation.”

  He turned. “There is no such thing as having a conversation with you, Julia, when the children are involved.” He turned and walked out of the house.

  Francesca was stunned. Had a two-by-four fallen from the sky and smashed down on her head she could not be more stunned. How could this be happening?

  Julia whirled to her. “My home is falling apart!”

  She fought for composure. “Mama, nothing is falling apart.”

  “My home, my family, my life is falling apart!” she cried. “Did you see that? He walked out on me! He has never treated me in such a manner.”

  “He’s coming home. He’ll be back. And then you can calmly come to terms,” Francesca tried valiantly. But she did not think they would come to terms on this particular subject. And then what?

  Julia stared at her as if she had grown two heads. She began to shake. “Oh, dear God. Andrew has walked out on me. Evan has left home. Connie is in her rooms, refusing to come out. And you!” Julia leveled accusing eyes on her. “You fancy yourself in love with the commissioner, who is married. That I have had enough of, Miss Francesca Louise Cahill!”

  Francesca dared not speak.

  “Oh, I do know you! Once you have convinced yourself of something, there is no arguing with you! It is like taking a bone from a terrier! Well, I do have news for you! Just because you have decided he is ‘the one,’ that does not mean it is true! He is not ‘the one,’ obviously, as he has a wife, my dear. So I expect your nonsense to cease!”