“That was uncalled for,” Francesca said, trying to control her anger. And she looked the redheaded miscreant right in the eye.
“Oh, yeah? Well, get this. We ain’t in no fancy ballroom, Miz Cahill,” he spat with sudden anger. “You don’t belong here. Go home.”
He knew of her—somehow. Francesca reached down to help Joel up. She did not think this boy read the newspapers. So how did he know her name? “Let’s go, Joel,” she said, laying a restraining hand on his shoulder. She knew he wanted to attack the bigger boy. She had little doubt he would be quickly humiliated—and even hurt—should he try.
“You stay out of our way,” Joel snarled.
Reid laughed again. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, ass-wipe?”
Joel started for him. A knife appeared in Reid’s hand. But at that exact same time, Francesca yanked Joel backward by the collar of his torn overcoat. “I would put that away, if I were you,” she said softly. And, from the corner of her eye, she recognized the man who had just appeared on the doorstep of Number 202.
He was tall and broad-shouldered. The gaslight illuminated him, revealing sun-streaked hair, a bronzed complexion, and a tan greatcoat. He was handsome in an unusual way. Indian blood ran in his veins. And he was already striding purposefully toward them.
Her heart sped. She could not help smiling. They had agreed to remain friends, to fight the attraction that had formed, but dear God, could they really do so? Francesca had never fallen in love before. She knew she would never do so again.
Reid looked over his shoulder, saw Rick Bragg, and tucked the knife away. Whistling for his three friends, he hurried across the street, weaving in and out of the several carriages passing by. Bragg paused beside Francesca and Joel, for one moment staring after Reid with hard, unwavering eyes. Then he turned to her and their gazes met and held.
And her heart skipped wildly. So much had happened and so quickly. . . . She did not ever want to hurt this man. She simply cared too much.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his amber gaze softening.
She smiled then, as always, no matter the circumstance she found herself in, glad to see him. In the course of four difficult and confusing investigations, he had become her best friend and perhaps even an anchor for her. “Of course. I am hardly afraid of one delinquent boy.” The exaggeration was a slight one, but she so enjoyed seeing respect and admiration in Rick Bragg’s eyes when he looked at her.
“He has a record a mile long. And he’s fifteen going on sixteen, which makes him a young and dangerous man. When he was Joel’s age, he was also a kid.”
Francesca knew by now that kid meant a “child cut-purse.” Before she could comment, Joel said, “He’s mean an’ smart. An’ he buzzed molls. Still does, from time to time.”
Francesca blinked. Bragg said, “He preys upon the ladies, Francesca, so watch your purse the next time he is about.”
“I can take him,” Joel declared, two bright spots marring his pale cheeks.
Bragg raised a brow. “He’s twice your size, Kennedy. I’d think twice about such an act of folly if I were you.”
Joel spat into the street, precariously close to Bragg’s feet. Fortunately, the spittle missed his shiny polished shoes.
“Joel,” Francesca said in reprimand.
“We got a murder to solve or what?” Joel said angrily. He slipped past Bragg and hurried toward the front door of the building.
Francesca and Bragg watched him. He was not willing to give up his hatred of anyone associated with the police. But then, he had been in trouble with the police for most of his young life. He was a pickpocket with his own criminal record. She tugged on Bragg’s sleeve. “You are so patient with him. Thank you.”
“Do I have a choice? When my favorite sleuth has made him her assistant?” A smile was in his tone.
She smiled and he smiled back. And in that single moment, the past few hours—and weeks—disappeared. In that single instant, his terribly beautiful wife did not exist, and neither did Calder Hart, his dangerously provocative half brother. In that instant, the moment when Leigh Anne had faced Francesca and demanded she stay away from Bragg had never happened—as if she had not returned from her four-year absence in Europe in order to reclaim her marriage, as if she had not confronted Francesca to discourage her and Bragg’s friendship and to warn her away. Leigh Anne had, in fact, shaken Francesca’s confidence thoroughly. For she had insisted that she shared a bond with her husband that Francesca could never sever.
Francesca had to pinch herself to remind her that the past few hours, days, and weeks did exist, very much so. That Leigh Anne had returned to the city and that she was Bragg’s legal spouse. That Calder Hart, in what had to be a moment of madness, had told her that he intended to marry her. She shivered, feeling very much as if she were wedged between a rock and a hard place. But at least now she was on familiar footing—a crime had been committed, she and Bragg had a case to solve, and once again they would be working together.
Bragg took her arm, guiding her across the icy street. “What happened?” she asked as they entered the building.
“I have spoken to one neighbor, Louis Bennett, in Number Five,” Bragg said, pausing inside a pleasant entry hall with a single chair, a table on the wall, a mirror above that. A small chandelier light burned above their heads. Joel had plopped down on the chair, swinging his thin legs. “Number Five happens to be across the hall from Number Seven, where Melinda Neville was murdered. He had come in at half past seven, saw her door open, called out, and did not receive an answer. So he peeked inside. And then he saw the vandalism—and her body. He immediately ran outside and flagged down a roundsman.”
So the victim’s name was Melinda Neville. Francesca paused to study the heavy wood door they had just come through, which was painted a dark green. The lock was brass. It required a key. There was no dead bolt on the inside, for the obvious reason that too many people shared the house. “Is this door always locked?”
“Yes. But when Bennett came in, it was unlocked,” Bragg said. “I don’t think it is surprising that the murderer would flee without locking it behind him.”
“Of course not. Did Bennett see or hear anything at all? Anybody?” she asked.
“No. But he is extremely upset now, and I suspect he went into shock when he realized that Miss Neville was dead,” Bragg said quietly.
A wide staircase was just ahead of them. That was typical of Georgian homes. Bragg said, “There are three apartments downstairs and four on the next floor, three more above.”
Francesca nodded and started for the stairs, Bragg joining her and Joel leaping up. “Perhaps our killer is a tenant here,” she said.
“Perhaps. But there are ways to pick a lock, as you know. In fact, wait one moment. Joel?”
Joel faced him. “What?”
“Do me a favor, will you? See if you can open that door from the outside if I lock it from within.”
Joel narrowed his gaze at him. “I ain’t no bedchamber sneak,” he finally said.
“I know you are no burglar,” Bragg said, appearing very slightly annoyed. But then, it was growing late and it had been a very long day and he and the child had never quite come to friendly terms.
Joel turned and went outside. Bragg locked the door and glanced at Francesca. A moment passed, and then they heard something being inserted into the lock. Francesca tensed. Joel picked at the lock from the outside without result for several minutes, and then they heard him run off. Francesca sighed and said, “I do not think he is quite done.”
“Nor do I,” Bragg said, his golden eyes on hers. They exchanged smiles. A moment later the lock clicked behind them and Joel pushed through the door, grinning in triumph. “Not so hard,” he announced with glee and pride.
“Well done,” Francesca applauded, ruffling his thick hair.
Joel pulled away, blushing and proud, and handed Bragg a set of keys.
Bragg looked at him. “And where did you get those?”
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Joel laughed. “Took ’em right out of the pocket of Inspector Newman,” he said.
Francesca bit her lip to suppress her laughter. “Shall we go up?” she asked.
Bragg nodded. Francesca led the way, Joel on her heels. Number Seven was on her right at the top of the stairs. The corridor there was about twenty feet long. A faded blue runner was on the floor, and a wall sconce was between the two pairs of apartments on each side of the hall. The lighting was dim even though it was electric. Number Four faced Number Seven. Bennett’s apartment, Number Five, was adjacent to Number Four.
The door to Number Seven was open. Lights had been turned on within. A uniformed roundsman stood outside the door, clearly to keep any inquisitive civilians away, and he nodded at Bragg while glancing curiously at Francesca. Inside, another detective in plainclothes was on his knees, searching beneath a faded sofa for any possible clues.
Francesca smiled at the officer and stepped inside a small salon that had been turned into an artist’s studio. Two windows on one side of the room, which overlooked 10th Street, undoubtedly provided wonderful light for the artist to work in. Instantly Francesca saw Miss Neville lying on her side, her face turned away, about midway across the room. And from this distance, Miss Neville appeared to be untouched. There was no blood, and one arm was out-flung. She could have been asleep.
But of course, she was not.
Francesca inhaled. She would never get used to death, much less a death that had been inflicted in violence and brutality upon an innocent human being.
She scanned the room, shivering, as it was cold within the flat. Miss Neville had two chairs and a low table facing the sofa at its opposite end, beyond where she now lay. She had clearly been using the sitting arrangement as her salon. Both of those chairs were overturned now, as was a vase of freshly cut flowers. Red roses lay scattered about the upside-down chairs.
Francesca turned to the closer side of the room. Facing the room’s two windows a few feet from the door where Francesca stood was an easel, which was also upside-down and upon the floor. A canvas lay there, facedown, alongside a palette and a dozen variously sized brushes, all of which looked to have been thrown roughly down. Paint had been dumped and thrown, splashed and splattered, almost everywhere. The back of the canvas was dripping shades of blue, purple, red, and black, and similarly violent hues dotted the room’s pale green walls, the sofa, the floor, and the once pleasant beige-and-red Oriental rug. Just beyond the seating area was an open doorway; inside was a small bedroom, as impossibly neat as the studio Francesca stood in was not. “Have you searched her bedroom?”
“Yes. I found a single unopened letter, dated a year ago, addressed to Miss Neville at a flat in Paris. It was from a Thomas Neville.”
“Her husband?” Her eyes widened, as here was a distinct lead.
He had to smile. “He was her brother. I opened and read the letter. The return address is here in the city. My plan is to interview him first thing in the morning.”
“Shall we meet at, say, nine?” Francesca asked quickly.
Bragg smiled. “He may not be there, Francesca. I hate for you to waste your time. Besides, don’t you have classes tomorrow?”
Francesca was pursuing a higher education and she had secretly enrolled at Barnard College last fall. “I will be at your office at nine,” she said firmly. She had missed so many classes that another one would not matter.
“Good,” he returned as swiftly.
Francesca could not help it then. It felt good to be at his side, working on another investigation, one that they must solve, as murder was now the name of the game. Her gaze returned to the scene of the brutal crime.
One canvas remained standing against another wall, a landscape done in watercolors, but angry splotches of red and black marred its otherwise tepid pastel-hued surface. Francesca did not find the landscape at all impressive, although it was well executed.
“How’d she get it?” Joel asked bluntly. “Ain’t no blood.”
“She was strangled,” Bragg said.
Francesca inhaled, rather dreading the evaluation she must make of the victim. “So the killer must be a man.”
“I would think so. I doubt another woman could have strangled her. There are numerous bruises on her throat and neck, indicating a very forceful grip.”
Francesca nodded grimly. Miss Neville would wait another moment, as she was hardly going anywhere. Francesca turned to stare at one of the room’s paint-splashed walls.
For upon it, not far from the upright watercolor, amid the splatters of dark paint, was a single letter, hastily painted there in black. The letter seemed to be a B.
Francesca started and faced Bragg. Their gazes locked. “Bragg? Did you notice that letter upon the wall?” As the wall had been marred with so much paint in so many dark and disturbing colors, the crude letter was not glaring or overly obvious.
“Yes.”
Their gazes held. Her brother, Evan, had recently and reluctantly become engaged to Sarah Channing, an engagement planned by their families. Sarah was a rather shy young woman and not at all Evan’s type of lady—Francesca knew he preferred beautiful, flamboyant women. Sarah was more than retiring; she did not care at all for society or its social whirl. In fact, she was a passionate and even brilliant artist. Less than a week ago, her art studio had been attacked in a shockingly similar manner. There were no suspects. One difference, however, between the instances of vandalism now and then was that there had been an incomplete letter painted in blood red on Sarah’s wall. At the time, Francesca and Bragg had thought it might be an F.
“Bragg? What do you make of the letter B on the wall over there?”
He inhaled. “It is not painted in red, it is complete, and it is not an F.”
They stared at each other. Finally Francesca said, “That is definitely a B.”
“Yes, it is. We shall have to go back to Sarah’s and see if the F we thought we saw was actually the beginnings of a capital B. This letter B is a capital.” Sarah’s studio had been left untouched since the vandalism, as the case remained an open one. Bragg strongly felt that crime scenes should remain untainted; he worried about his detectives missing clues on the first go-round. Francesca thought his investigative technique brilliantly original.
“What message does the vandal—the killer—intend?”
“I have no idea, Francesca,” Bragg said softly. “Not yet.”
Suddenly Francesca stilled—chilled. “We are a team now, and most of the city knows it.”
“What are you getting at?”
“First an F, and now a B,” she murmured.
He understood and started. “You think the killer is toying with you and me?”
Francesca shrugged. “I don’t know. How could I? We haven’t even begun to investigate. But the notion did occur to me, unfortunately.” And fortunately, she had quickly recovered her composure. For it was not a foregone conclusion that the letter F had been painted on Sarah Channing’s wall.
“Well, I do hope you are wrong, because that would indicate a very maddened killer, Francesca.”
Francesca nodded, but her senses all felt heightened now, for this was what she did best, as she had so recently discovered. “Bragg? There is one more difference, obviously, between the Neville and Channing Incidents.”
And it was a huge difference indeed. Sarah had discovered the crime at five-fifteen in the morning and had lived to speak of it. That is, she had not seen or encountered the vandal, and there had not been a murder.
“Yes, as Sarah lives and Miss Neville does not,” Bragg said, clearly thinking in the same vein as she.
“Is Sarah in danger?” Francesca asked slowly, with dread. She had become quite fond of Sarah since meeting her.
Bragg hesitated. “I simply don’t know, Francesca,” he finally said.
Francesca inhaled and faced Miss Neville again. There was no more avoiding what she must do. But Bragg touched her elbow, a gesture of restraint. She met hi
s gaze. “I’m fine.”
“It isn’t pleasant,” he warned.
“Death is never pleasant.” She walked slowly across the room, avoiding the patches of paint, aware of Bragg following her.
Miss Neville’s face was turned away from her, which was fine. Francesca looked first at her gray suit. Splotches of angry paint had been cast upon her, too. It made Francesca angry, for she imagined the killer throwing paint upon his dead victim. “He murdered her before he vandalized the studio,” she said.
“Not necessarily. She might have surprised him in his act of destruction and become rather paint-splattered as a result.”
Francesca simply did not think so. She felt that Miss Neville had been dead when the murderer had begun to tarnish her with paint. And while the fitted suit was not a custom-made one, it was of a good quality, and it indicated that Miss Neville was a gentlewoman. Francesca glanced at her shoes—they were black-and-white kid with fancy heels and they had cost a few dollars. The petticoat frothing about the unevenly turned hem of the gray skirt was French lace. Francesca was perplexed.
Miss Neville lived frugally, but she dressed well. In fact, there were two rings on the fingers of her outstretched hand, and one of them was a sapphire flanked by two small diamonds. She wore it on her left index finger—had she been engaged? Married?
The other ring was a simple silver band flecked with tiny red stones. Francesca assumed the stones to be garnets.
Francesca allowed her gaze to move up Miss Neville’s still form—she had a very fine figure, a small waist and a voluptuous bosom—and finally to her neck. She saw marks that were turning black-and-blue upon her throat, both on the front of her neck and on the back. Whoever had done this, he had been a strong man, probably with large hands. Her gaze moved higher. Miss Neville’s hair was a pretty, bright chestnut, although severely drawn back into a chignon. A dove gray hat was pinned to her head and the skin of her right cheek was fair and flawless.
Francesca walked around her to the other side, so Miss Neville was facing her now. She sank down to her knees, looked at her stunning and very familiar face—and she cried out.
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