Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  Leigh Anne surprised her, proving that she was a very worthy adversary. “If you care to arrange it, I will certainly attend. Perhaps you should invite your cousin, whom I have yet to meet?”

  Bartolla made an airy submissive gesture. “Sarah is always in her studio, painting. It is almost impossible to distract her from her art, but if you wish it, I will try.” And as she spoke, she thought about Evan Cahill and her heart leaped.

  He was so badly hurt, but he would recover, thank God. She would visit him later that day—and every afternoon while he was bedridden. She missed the time they had been spending together. Yet she needed far more than his companionship and gallantry, as she was a hot-blooded woman and he was a simply stunning young man. She knew he would be a superb lover, at once experienced and generous. She knew he would worship every inch of her lush body. Still, her plans required patience.

  First he must break his engagement to Sarah, which Bartolla knew he had intended to do before he’d been in that absurd brawl. And until recently she had intended to engage in every possible sexual act with him except for an actual consummation. She had planned to withhold her ultimate favors, to tease and torment him until he dropped down on his knees and begged her to marry him. But she was growing impatient—and scared.

  The way he had been looking at the haggard and dowdy seamstress the other day had really frightened her, no matter how often she told herself that there simply could not be any competition between them. Not for Evan Cahill.

  But she could not talk herself out of her worries, and abruptly her plans had changed.

  She must speed up the inevitable now.

  And she must claim to be pregnant as soon as was possible.

  They had finally calmed Thomas Neville down and had asked him several other questions. By the time they had handed him back to Captain Shea in order for him to take Neville’s report, Francesca couldn’t help wondering if he was their man. She and Bragg watched him, seated behind a desk, Shea now interviewing him for the official missing person report. “What do you think?”

  Bragg glanced at her. “Don’t leap to conclusions, Francesca.”

  “He clearly loves his sister. But he is odd. There is something about him that bothers me,” she said reflectively.

  “I think we should look into Hoeltz’s alibi,” Bragg said. “If Miss Neville ended their affair, I doubt she spent Sunday night with him, which means he lied to us. And that gives him motivation.”

  “Motivation to murder Miss Conway?” Francesca was skeptical.

  “Motivation to vandalize his lover’s studio in a fit of rage and or despair, and then take out his fury on Miss Conway, an innocent passerby.”

  “And that still leaves us with the very significant and unanswered question of where is Miss Neville—and what has happened to her? If your theory is correct, she may be hiding from her very own lover,” Francesca said.

  Before he could reply, Inspector Newman came barreling through the two front doors of headquarters, huffing and puffing as he did so. He saw them instantly, veered in their direction, and halted before them, gasping for air.

  “Slow down,” Bragg said, clasping his shoulder. “I take it you have found something?”

  Newman nodded, wheezing and incapable of speech. Hickey entered the lobby now, a tall, lean man with red hair going gray. He strolled over. “Miss Holmes has been murdered,” he said.

  “What?!” Francesca said, in shock.

  Bragg guided Newman to a bench. “When did this happen?”

  Newman breathed. “Her mother found her this morning, sir. Found her lying on the floor in her bedroom, strangled to death.”

  “Let’s go,” Bragg said.

  Francesca paused in the narrow doorway of the room that had belonged, until sometime last night, to Catherine Holmes. Instantly her gaze slammed onto Catherine’s lifeless form. She lay several feet from her narrow bed in her simple cotton nightgown, beside an unornamented wall. She did not lie near the doorway where Francesca stood. As Mrs. Holmes was on the couch in the parlor, sobbing in hysterics, the scene was a terrible one.

  Francesca also wanted to cry.

  Francesca had met Miss Conway once, and briefly. She had not met Miss Neville. Now she felt paralyzed with grief.

  She felt Bragg appear at her side. Not looking at him, she said solemnly, “She lied to us about the window. I am certain she would sit there and yearn for another life, a life outside this dismal, damp apartment. She saw the killer, Bragg. And he came back for her.”

  Bragg touched her arm. “That is one theory, and it may be the right one.” He walked over to Catherine’s body and knelt down. “Her throat is turning black-and-blue,” he said.

  Francesca looked away. She took one last glance at the sparsely furnished bedroom. The comforter was blue and worn, and one lacy white pillow had been used to decorate the bed. The side table was pine and poorly constructed. There was one lamp in the room upon it, as was a mug of water. A Bible was there, as well.

  Several items of clothing hung on the wall pegs. Francesca turned to the broken-down armoire and opened it. She found more clothing, a pair of shoes, undergarments, and one pretty shell hair comb. She felt more saddened than before.

  Miss Neville’s flat had been rather unadorned, but not like this, not so starkly, so depressingly. And Miss Neville had had her art.

  Francesca hoped that she was alive.

  Francesca left the bedroom and was joined by Bragg in the parlor. “The door was bolted from the inside every night, and Mrs. Holmes says it was bolted when she ran into the street to shout for help this morning.”

  On the couch, Mrs. Holmes continued to alternately gasp for air and sob.

  “I want to get this madman, Bragg,” Francesca said grimly. “Before he strikes again.”

  “I do, too,” he returned. He pointed at the window where Catherine Holmes’s rocking chair sat, glaringly empty now. Francesca saw that the window had been smashed and it was wide open. “He entered and left this way.”

  “Why not go out the front door?”

  “Perhaps he did not want to be seen in the hallway a second time,” Bragg said.

  “Is there any connection between Catherine Holmes and the art world?” she asked, wanting to add, Or my brother? But she did not.

  “No.”

  Suddenly the chief of police came striding into the room. As he was so leonine and charismatic, he dominated the small parlor. “Commissioner, sir. Miss Cahill. I see our strangler has been at it again.”

  As Francesca did not like Brendan Farr—he had made it clear he did not like her involvement in police affairs, and she found him threatening—she merely smiled and walked about the room, looking for more clues.

  “Either our killer is a madman who has become fond of this building or Miss Holmes saw something she should not have seen,” Bragg said. He gestured to the bedroom.

  Farr went in, followed by a young officer. He also knelt beside the body, visually inspecting her without touching her. Newman and Hickey were now finishing their search of the parlor. They turned their efforts to the bedroom.

  Francesca walked over to Mrs. Holmes, wishing Farr were not involving himself in the case. She sat down beside her. “I am so sorry. Has a doctor been called?”

  Mrs. Holmes nodded, her face impossibly haggard now. “She was such an angel,” she choked. “She was my angel of mercy! How could anyone do this?”

  “We intend to find out,” Francesca said grimly. Impulsively she took the woman’s hands. “Did Miss Holmes know Grace Conway? Were they friends?”

  “Absolutely not! Miss Conway was an actress, young lady, and my daughter is genteel.”

  “Did she know or had she ever met either Bertrand Hoeltz, Miss Neville’s friend, or Thomas Neville, her brother?” Francesca stiffened, as Farr had come to stand behind her.

  “She was friendly with Miss Neville, as was I. Of course we knew her brother. As for Mr. Hoeltz”—Mrs. Holmes was grim—“I told her to never e
ven look at him should she pass him in the hallway. I told her he was dangerous.”

  “Did Mr. Hoeltz frequent this building? Did he visit Miss Neville here?” Francesca asked, surprised.

  “Yes, he did. And he always had red roses in his arms, red roses and a bottle of French wine!” Tears returned to her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and cried again.

  “Did Miss Holmes know Evan Cahill, Mrs. Holmes?” Farr asked.

  Francesca stiffened, and slowly she turned to look up at him.

  He stared at her, his gray eyes fathomless. “It is the one question you did not ask.”

  Mrs. Holmes dropped her hands. “That friend of Miss Conway? Absolutely not! He is as bad as Hoeltz, or even worse! Always smiling at the good girls like my Catherine. I told her not to ever smile back at him!”

  “Francesca?” Bragg called quietly from the bedroom.

  Francesca leaped to her feet and hurried over. Bragg was holding the Bible in his hand. “What is it?” she asked, not liking his odd expression. She had an inkling of dread.

  He was so grim. He opened the Bible and Francesca realized that it was a journal, not a Bible after all. The cover of the Bible had been removed from the Good Book and attached to the journal, clearly disguising what the contents were. He had it opened randomly, and he handed it to her.

  Francesca glanced at the date—it was almost a year ago—and read:

  He came calling on Grace Conway again, and we passed in the hall. Of course, I was expecting him, as he always comes for her in the early evenings to take her out. Tonight he wore a pink carnation in his lapel. And this time, when he smiled at me, I managed to say hello! He actually said hello to me, too, then introduced himself. His name is Evan Cahill. Oh, how elegant it sounds, and how it suits him! I dared to introduce myself, and after that, he wished me a pleasant evening.

  Francesca’s dread became full-blown. She skipped the rest of the page, turning to another one:

  I heard them all night. I heard him making love to her, I heard her crying his name. Afterward, I heard him telling her how much he loves her. These walls are so thin! And later, when it was quiet upstairs, I could not sleep. In my mind I keep seeing Evan Cahill making love to Miss Conway, but eventually, she becomes me. Oh, God. I am so in love.

  Francesca snapped the book closed, aghast.

  Farr towered in the doorway. “So she kept a journal,” he said flatly.

  Francesca turned away from him, trembling. Her brother was now the link between Sarah Channing and both dead women.

  “Are you all right?” Bragg took her hand and held it tightly.

  “That journal doesn’t mean anything,” Francesca said as they sat in his Daimler outside the brownstone that housed Gallery Hoeltz.

  “It means that she was infatuated with your brother. We will need to hear his side of this, Francesca.”

  “If only Farr hadn’t shown up!” she cried passionately. He was trouble and she simply knew it. “He dislikes me so!”

  To her surprise, Bragg did not disagree or try to reassure her. He got out of the motorcar and came around to open her door. He said, “I think you should stay away from police headquarters for a while, Francesca. Keep a low profile, if you understand my meaning. Continue to investigate, but with discretion.”

  She nodded. “I happen to agree with you,” she said.

  They left the roadster and soon Bertrand Hoeltz was ushering them upstairs into the art gallery. He looked terrible—as if he had aged a decade in a day. After seating them in his small office and offering them espresso, he said, “Please tell me that you have good news. Please tell me you have found Melinda!”

  “I am afraid we have no news,” Bragg said. “We continue to work on it.”

  “We need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Hoeltz,” Francesca said softly.

  He groaned and covered his face with his hands, then nodded grimly at them. He seemed genuinely distraught over his mistress’s continuing disappearance.

  “Mr. Hoeltz,” Francesca said softly—nonthreateningly. “Did Miss Neville decide to end your affair?”

  He straightened as if shot. His eyes were wide, shocked. “What?”

  Francesca repeated the question.

  He rubbed his face. “No, she did not, and I do not know where you heard such a lie,” he said hoarsely. He met her eyes. “We were more than paramours, Miss Cahill. We were in love.”

  Francesca smiled tightly. “I am sure you were,” she said, alarm bells now ringing within her mind. He was lying. He had not been able to look her in the eye when he had denied the breakup of his affair.

  “Do you recall what you did Monday morning after Miss Neville left here?” Bragg asked quietly and neutrally. Francesca did not have to share a glance with him to know that he had caught the lie as well.

  Hoeltz was startled. “Monday morning? What does that have to do with anything?” He seemed quite pale now.

  “Please,” Bragg said with an encouraging smile.

  Hoeltz shook his head. “I read the Sun, my newspaper of choice. I then went for a walk, something I do every morning. I did some paperwork and wrote a few letters, here in my office, and then I took lunch at a small restaurant not far from here.”

  “Alone?” Bragg asked.

  “Yes, alone. What is this about?”

  “At what time did you take lunch and what is the name of the restaurant?” Francesca asked, Miss Holmes’s stunning journal still preoccupying her mind.

  “The restaurant is called Joe’s and it is two blocks up Fourth Avenue,” he said, looking upset now. He glanced back and forth between them both several times. “What is this about?”

  “And after lunch?” Bragg continued, as if not hearing him.

  “I had no appointments, so I began an inventory of some new work I have recently acquired. Then I went out to buy some bread and cheese for a light supper. I was expecting Melinda, but she never came,” he ended hoarsely, wide-eyed with apprehension now.

  Francesca looked at Bragg. For most of Monday, with the exception of his lunch at Joe’s, Bertrand Hoeltz had no alibi. And his mistress had ended their affair the night before her disappearance—the night before Grace Conway’s murder. “How well did you know Thomas Neville?” she asked.

  “I hardly knew him at all!” He was distressed.

  “Why not?” Bragg asked. “After all, he was your mistress’s brother.”

  He flushed. “Why not? That is the exact reason why not, Commissioner. He disapproved of our affair. He disapproved of me. In fact, he was such an opinionated and difficult man that Mellie avoided him to the best of her ability. That is why she spent a year in Paris—to avoid her own brother. When she came back, we both agreed to keep him at a distance.”

  “But Thomas Neville visited his sister almost every day at her own flat,” Francesca pointed out. That hardly seemed compatible with Melinda’s wishing to avoid him.

  Hoeltz was grim. “He was hard to avoid.”

  “I have one more question,” she said. “If you loved her so much, why didn’t you marry her?”

  He turned red.

  “Mr. Hoeltz?” Bragg prodded.

  He stood. He was excessively grim. “I wanted to, of course. Desperately, in fact. But I could not.”

  Francesca waited.

  He sighed. “I am already married, Miss Cahill. My wife lives with our children in a small town north of Paris.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1902—3:00 P.M.

  HART HAD BOUGHT HIS mistress a house on Fifth Avenue. Francesca walked slowly through a wrought-iron gate toward the stately brick mansion. She continued to worry about Catherine Holmes’s infatuation with her brother and Brendan Farr’s sudden involvement in the case. But as Francesca approached Daisy’s front door, she was well aware that her nervousness had nothing to do with the current investigation and everything to do with the visit she was about to make. It was odd, because she was genuinely fond of Daisy, w
ho she suspected came from a background very much like her own. But now, with Hart’s intentions firmly declared toward her and the kiss they had so recently shared, she felt wary, as if calling upon the other woman was somehow an act that involved the enemy.

  She also knew that Hart must never find out about this social call. For she simply had to pry—she had to know about his relationship with Daisy.

  The front door was answered promptly by a servant. Francesca was ushered into a spacious entry hall with highly polished wood floors and a wide, sweeping staircase at its end. Several paintings hung on the walls, two landscapes, a still life, and a wonderful depiction of a mother and her daughter. Francesca handed over her calling card, briefly admiring the portrait of mother and child and hoping to distract herself from her anxiety. It had been painted by someone named Mary Cassatt.

  “Francesca!” Daisy cried in genuine pleasure, hurrying down the stairs.

  Francesca smiled warmly in return, for one moment forgetting the man who was the common bond between them. Daisy remained the most ethereal woman Francesca had ever seen, more angelic than womanly, a vision of moonlit tones and hues. Her hair was platinum, her skin a similar shade of ivory. She was slender and delicate. Her features were flawless—huge blue eyes, startling with such a fair complexion, high cheekbones, a slim nose. If her jaw was a bit strong, one hardly noticed, as her lips were unusually full.

  She was the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever seen, bar none, even Leigh Anne. Francesca had not been surprised when Hart had made Daisy his mistress. They were perfectly suited to each other physically, as he was the shadowy night, she the moonlight.

  “How are you, Daisy?” Francesca said. In a way, she felt like a traitor to her new friend. She knew that Daisy was very happy with Hart and their arrangement.

  “Wonderful.” Daisy smiled. And to Francesca’s surprise, it did not reach her eyes. Her startling blue eyes were worried. What could be amiss?