Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  “Francesca?” Bragg reached for her.

  Francesca allowed him to pull her up, simply too stunned to speak.

  “What is it?” Bragg demanded.

  Francesca gulped down air. “That . . . she isn’t Miss Neville . . . Bragg! That . . . she is Grace Conway!” Francesca stammered, still reeling.

  “What?”

  “Grace Conway . . . the actress . . . I met her once . . . Bragg! She is my brother’s mistress!”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1902—11:00 P.M.

  BRAGG PULLED HER ASIDE. “That is Grace Conway?”

  “I am certain!” Francesca cried, beginning to shake. Her mind sped and raced. Her brother, Evan, was handsome, charming, and, until recently, quite the catch. That is, until recently, he had been their father’s sole male heir. But the other day he had been disowned, due to his refusal to go through with his engagement to Sarah Channing, whom he neither loved nor liked. He had been forced into the engagement in the first place, with Andrew refusing to pay his gambling debts otherwise. He and Andrew had had the worst row, with Evan announcing that he was quitting the company and moving out. Unfortunately, the next day he had been badly beaten in what he claimed to have been a barroom brawl.

  Evan had been involved with the beautiful actress for some time, and Francesca had run into them once on Broadway. Miss Conway was not a woman one would ever forget. She was beautiful and she had a presence about her that drew all attention. This was, most definitely, her.

  “This is Melinda Neville’s apartment. Miss Conway has no personal papers or calling cards on her. Wait here, Francesca,” Bragg said firmly, and he hadn’t even finished speaking before he was through the flat’s front door.

  Francesca had to sit down, but there was nowhere to do so other than the sofa, and somehow the entire room felt terribly tainted now. She did not want to touch anything. How could this be happening?

  “I seen her once, in Vaudeville!” Joel cried in a hushed whisper. “With me mom and Paddy and Matt. It is her, isn’t it? God’s arse! Someone done stiffed Grace Conway!”

  It was hard to breathe. Poor Evan! Of course, he hadn’t been that involved with Grace Conway in these last few weeks, as he had recently become rather smitten with Sarah’s cousin the widowed countess Bartolla Benevente. Maybe Grace wasn’t even his mistress anymore. Francesca hugged herself, and she couldn’t help hoping their affair was over before Grace’s death. And poor Miss Conway! She closed her eyes. First Sarah Channing, Evan’s fiancée, and now his mistress.

  Bragg returned with a big, burly man with heavy sideburns and a beard. He was middle-aged and extremely distressed. “Please, Mr. Bennett, this is extremely important. You must take a close look at the victim.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” Mr. Bennett was on the verge of tears.

  “Of course you can,” Bragg said gently, keeping a firm grip on the heavyset gentleman and leading him around to where Francesca had so recently been standing.

  Bennett cried out, “Good God! That’s not Miss Neville! That is our neighbor, Miss Conway! She lives across the hall in Number Four!” he exclaimed.

  “Thank you,” Bragg said gravely. “Do you have any idea of when Miss Neville will return?”

  Bennett shook his head, his loose jowls flapping.

  “You may go,” Bragg said, and Bennett almost ran from the apartment as if he might be the killer’s next target.

  Francesca stood up. “Perhaps Miss Conway saw the door open, as did Mr. Bennett. Perhaps she surprised the assailant, who then murdered her.”

  “Those are my first thoughts, exactly.” Bragg was grim. His face was hard. He was reflective now. “Your brother’s fiancée had her studio vandalized a week ago. Yesterday your brother was in a serious brawl. How is he, by the way?”

  “He is in pain, on laudanum, and in bed. He has a concussion, two broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and, as of last night, a black eye.” Francesca was afraid. She knew where Bragg led. “First Miss Channing, then Evan’s injuries, and now Miss Conway. Bragg, Evan does not brawl.”

  “He said he was in a barroom brawl, did he not?”

  “I haven’t been able to speak to him, but I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t believe it, either, as his injuries are too vicious. As if someone intended to hurt him—or kill him.”

  Francesca sat back down again. She knew Evan had not been in a fistfight. He was not that kind of man. Someone had attacked him. She was even more afraid. “Somehow this is all connected, is it not? This must be about Evan—as he is the key here between Sarah and Miss Conway.”

  “I am beginning to think so,” Bragg said.

  “That would make the fact that Miss Conway was murdered in an artist’s studio a coincidence. But how can it be coincidental to what happened to Sarah? The killer here has vandalized Miss Neville’s studio exactly as he did Sarah’s. And if Grace Conway surprised the assailant, then he did not intend to murder her and Evan is not involved.”

  “We must focus on the facts which we do have and not leap to possible conclusions,” Bragg said firmly. “Fact: this studio was vandalized in the same manner as Miss Channing’s studio. Fact two: Evan is the connection between Miss Conway and Sarah Channing.” He became more thoughtful and added, “Fact three: Miss Neville is the artist here.”

  “Then this does not make any sense at all!” Francesca cried with real worry.

  Bragg took her arm. “Since when has any case made sense until its very end?” he asked quietly.

  She leaned against him, gazing up into his eyes. Being with him always gave her strength. In this case, as Evan might somehow be involved, it also gave her hope. And if she did not recover her composure, she would never help solve this case! “Evan owes a tremendous sum of money, Bragg. He is far too fond of gambling. The whole argument with my father began because of his debts, which Papa will no longer pay. In fact, Papa basically blackmailed Evan into his engagement.”

  “You have already told me, Francesca,” Bragg said with a kind expression. “He owes a terrific sum, does he not? I can’t help wondering if the so-called brawl was the act of a very angry creditor.”

  Francesca swallowed. “I have already wondered that myself.” She inhaled hard. “I fear I must leap to possible conclusions! Perhaps there is some coincidence here. What if the brawl Evan has claimed to be in has nothing to do with Miss Conway’s murder and the vandalism both here and at Sarah’s? Perhaps an odd killer is on the loose, and after the city’s female artists. If Miss Conway surprised him, her murder might have been unpremeditated and it might have nothing to do with my brother at all.”

  “If that is so, then Miss Neville was the target,” Bragg said.

  They stared at each other as the ramifications of this new development dawned upon them both. Bragg whirled. Francesca followed him to the door. The patrolman still stood outside it, but Newman was coming up the stairs, huffing and puffing as he did so. “Newman,” Bragg snapped.

  The chubby inspector hurried forward. “Sir?”

  “The victim is the stage actress Grace Conway, a neighbor of Miss Neville’s.”

  Newman’s eyes widened. “I seen her once, at the Majestic Theatre! She had the voice of an angel, she did, not to mention the face—”

  “We must find Miss Neville,” Bragg cut him off. “It is entirely possible that Miss Conway surprised the killer and that he is after Miss Neville as we speak.”

  Newman nodded grimly. “I’ll get right on it, sir. Maybe she’s at that Thomas Neville’s place or he knows where she is. I can take Hickey and try to speak with him tonight.”

  “I wish to interrogate him myself. We’ll go together, but after we look at Miss Conway’s flat. Keep two men here, however, in case Miss Neville returns. And if she does, under no circumstances may she be allowed to reside in her apartment. Bring her to headquarters and notify me.”

  Newman nodded and took off.

  Francesca started to
ward Grace Conway’s apartment. Bragg took her arm, detaining her. “Francesca, it’s late,” he said firmly.

  She stiffened with surprise. “I am searching Miss Conway’s apartment with you—and going to interview Thomas Neville as well.”

  “Your mother will strangle me,” Bragg said.

  That was probably true. Julia was not very pleased with Rick Bragg. The fact that he and Francesca continued to be so close and to work so closely together displeased Julia no end. And even had Bragg not been married, she would have minded their relationship, as she was determined that Francesca marry into a certain amount of wealth and position. Civil servants had very modest incomes. Francesca found Julia’s matrimonial judgment appalling. “Mama is abed by now. I doubt she has discovered my absence. I refuse to leave now, Bragg, and that is that.”

  He smiled. “You remain the most stubborn woman I have ever met,” he said, too fondly. Then his smile vanished. “We shall compromise. Let us search Miss Conway’s flat, and then I shall take you home. Tomorrow, first thing, I shall update you on anything Thomas Neville has said.” He took her arm.

  The gesture was now a painfully familiar and intimate one. Francesca met his gaze, warmed by it. How right it felt to be working side by side in an active investigation once again. She quickly considered his advice, thinking about what might happen if she was met at the door by Julia when she got home. She smiled and then sighed. “Very well. You are right. And I can only pray that Miss Neville is at the address on the letters from Thomas Neville.”

  “I am hoping so as well.” Their gazes met in an understanding of how much they needed this lead. “But the last letter was written last year. He may very well have moved.”

  He reached for the doorknob to Number Four. “Joel? We may need—” He stopped. The door swung open beneath his hand.

  Francesca started, her gaze flying to his. Behind them, Joel said, “Looks like someone got here first, now don’t it?”

  Francesca hesitated while Bragg opened the door fully, revealing a dark room. He stepped inside, a gun appearing in his hand. Francesca followed him, drawing her own small derringer out of her purse. New tension filled her. It did not take a great stretch of imagination to think that maybe the killer was hiding in Grace Conway’s flat.

  Bragg crossed the room swiftly to the closest gas lamp, which he illuminated with a match. And a small, cheerful salon became instantly illuminated. Francesca looked past the wine-colored damask sofa, several green-and-burgundy-striped chairs, a dining table that seated six, and saw two adjoining rooms. One was a small kitchen; the other door was closed. It was obviously to Miss Conway’s bedroom.

  Bragg moved to the open doorway of the kitchen, glancing inside. He then went to the closed bedroom door, opening it. He stepped in, and Francesca saw the room flood with light. She relaxed as Bragg came back out. “It’s empty,” he said.

  Francesca smiled and put away her pistol. She glanced curiously around. Grace Conway had certainly put some money into her furnishings—the fabrics on each chair and pillow had been chosen with care, the Persian carpet that she now stood on appeared to be expensive, and a very small ornate crystal chandelier was over the dining room table. A large silver candelabra was in its center.

  Francesca found the apartment to be in extremely good taste. Had Evan paid for the furnishings? Had he paid for the flat? She felt ill then, dreading the moment when she must inform him of what had passed.

  Bragg was rummaging through the drawers of an elegant secretaire, which sat in the far corner of the room adjacent to double-sized windows with stiff brocade draperies. He sat down at the desk.

  She came over, unable to resist a curious glance into Miss Conway’s bedroom and flushing as she espied a four-poster bed with a rose-and-white floral coverlet and matching canopy. “Your brother has been keeping this flat,” Bragg said flatly.

  Her heart sank. Then, “I am hardly surprised.”

  Bragg shifted in the chair, turning it to face her. “She has several love letters here.”

  “From Evan?”

  “From Evan.”

  “Well, she was his mistress.”

  Bragg regarded her closely. “I do not want this in the newspapers, Francesca.”

  She bit her lip and found herself moving closer to him. “If Evan is involved, it is in a peripheral way. You know that.” Her gaze held his, seeking comfort and reassurance.

  “I do know that,” he said softly. “But I also know that men have been getting rid of unwanted mistresses since the beginning of time. A reporter like Arthur Kurland would have a field day with this, and that is what worries me.”

  Francesca didn’t move, and mere inches separated them. “I know,” she whispered, in despair. “I have been haunted by what the public will say and think if this ever comes to light! So many know Evan does not care for Sarah at all! The world knows it was an arranged match. First Sarah’s studio, now Miss Conway. It doesn’t look good, does it?”

  He stood swiftly, and before she could move, she was on her feet and loosely in his arms. “We both know your brother is not a madman, and we both know the only person he is enraged with is your father. We will keep this quiet, Francesca, to spare your brother any unpleasantness. I will meet you tomorrow at your house,” he added.

  Her skirts engulfed his legs. She gripped his arms. “Evan is not involved. We both know that!”

  “We both know that he is not a murderer,” he said quietly.

  She stared into his solemn eyes. He would always be the most steadfast man she knew. In a hurricane of events, he would never fail her. She knew what he was thinking now, as she so often did. They knew Evan was not a killer, but others might not be convinced.

  “You may tell Evan about Miss Conway, but do not interrogate him,” Bragg added.

  Suddenly she was bitter and she pulled away. “Is that what you shall do? Interrogate him?”

  “Frankly, yes,” he said. “I must operate under the assumption that somehow your brother is involved.” And seeing her unhappy and grim expression, he added, “But if we are lucky, Miss Conway’s murder will turn out to be a disturbing coincidence and nothing more.”

  Francesca stepped away from him, distressed and trying to remain composed. For the first time since she had become a sleuth, she wished she did not have a case to solve.

  No, she corrected silently, she wished she did not have this case to solve.

  They had reached the Cahill mansion, Number 810 Fifth Avenue, which lay between 61st and 62d Streets, just two blocks uptown from the Metropolitan Club. Bragg’s Daimler purred in the drive in front of the house; Francesca sat shivering in the front seat beside him, tired now, as it was well after midnight, but certain she would never sleep. Joel was wedged in the small space behind their seats. It had taken less than fifteen minutes to motor uptown, as there was no traffic at this time of night. They had found no more clues at Miss Conway’s, although she had kept a small box filled with cards, notes, and letters from her adoring fans. To search out and interview each and every fan would take years. And Bragg had sent two roundsmen to the Channing residence just in case their killer wished to strike again, just in case he meant for Sarah to be a mortal target.

  Although it was very late and she had become exhausted, Francesca wanted a moment or two alone with him. Moments alone were now rare. Had his wife remained in Europe, that would not be the case. And even though they remained separated, Francesca was determined to do the right thing, which meant their relationship would be limited to the partnership that had been formed by circumstance as an investigative team.

  She hadn’t meant to fall in love with him. In fact, when they had met, she had not been aware of men in any romantic way and had thought the whole notion of searching for true love quite comical. She had been rather smug, in fact, watching other young ladies throw themselves at handsome eligible men. But then she had been struck by Cupid’s unerring arrow, for she had fallen in love with Rick Bragg at first sight, even before they
had engaged in an engrossing political debate. Francesca felt rather certain she wouldn’t have been able to control her feelings even if she had known he had a wife. She had never before met a man like him. Not only was he handsome and intelligent; he was as passionate about social and political reform as she was. Until she had realized he was married, she had dreamed of having his children, of campaigning at his side for cause after cause, of sharing his life.

  For Rick Bragg had a political destiny awaiting him. Before he had arrived in New York to take up his new appointment, he had been an impoverished lawyer in Washington, where his clients had been the poor, the falsely accused, the indigent, and the insane. There was talk now of how he would one day run for the Senate. It was his dream to carry on his reforms on a national scale. And it was Francesca’s dream for him, as well.

  Francesca knew she was the other woman, no matter how much he still despised his wife. As her sister had so bluntly pointed out, Francesca endangered his future, his reputation, his life. Leigh Anne had every right, while she, Francesca, had none. Francesca had decided that not only would she and Bragg remain strictly friends, but she would support him in his each and every quest. And no matter how hard it was, she would not interfere in his marriage. She would support it instead.

  But it was so much easier to want to do the right thing than to actually give up one’s dreams.

  “What you waitin’ fer?” Joel grumbled, interrupting her brooding. “It’s colder than a bunch of stiffs back here!”

  Francesca glanced at Joel. “Why don’t you go inside? I will be in shortly.”

  “Oh. I get it. You lovebirds want to be alone.” Joel snickered and climbed over the side of the car, starting for the house.

  “Good night, Joel!” Bragg called after him.

  Joel shrugged and disappeared into the house. Francesca steeled herself against any desire and faced Bragg.

  He was studying her. His gaze drifted to her mouth. “It’s almost as if fate keeps throwing us together,” he finally said. He smiled a little then. “I never expected another case.” As they both knew, it was not his job to investigate crimes. But when the crime was of personal interest or had a vast public effect, he had the habit of stepping into the fray.