by Brenda Joyce
Rourke took her arm in surprise. “You lied to the police—or to Rick?”
Francesca could not believe she had made such a blunder. “It was a very small deception, just until I can find the real killer!”
Rourke was disapproving. “They are both my brothers. You are on a tightrope, as long as you remain friends with Bragg while engaged to Hart.”
She turned away. It was simply too much to ask her to end her friendship with Rick, but friends did not lie to each other. Then she faced Rourke. “Thank you, Rourke. Thank you for being so kind and so caring.”
He grinned, revealing a rakish dimple. “We are almost family, and it’s my duty to look out for you if my stepbrother is too negligent—and foolish—to do so.”
Francesca thanked him again, this time hugging him. He was blushing when she pulled away. She returned to the desk, taking up the note. “Are you going downtown, by any chance? I was hoping to send Hart this note.”
“Actually, I had planned to cross town to the Dakotas. But I have a free day. I think I could manage it,” Rourke said amiably.
Francesca’s brows rose. Most of the city’s residents referred to the distant and rather unpopulated West Side of the city as the Dakotas. She had no doubts as to why Rourke was making such a trip. Trying to be casual, she said, “Send Sarah my regards, will you?”
He glanced away. “I haven’t seen her or Mrs. Channing in some time.”
Francesca gave up and grinned, having wanted to play matchmaker for some time. Sarah Channing had become a dear friend, her best friend after her sister, Connie. Although most people saw Sarah as plain, mousy and reticent, Francesca had come to know her well. Sarah was as bohemian in spirit as Francesca, dancing to the tune of her own drummer and refusing to be cast in the mold of a proper, marriage-mad lady. She was, in fact, a brilliant artist. From their initial introduction, Rourke had been very attentive and kind to her. “We should plan to dine together, the four of us. How long will you be in town?”
Rourke eyed her. As if he had no real interest in such an evening, he shrugged. “I should not mind such a supper. Make the plans.”
Francesca handed him the note, which she had folded in half. “Oh, I will. How about Saturday evening at seven, say at the Sherry Netherland?”
“You can be so transparent, Francesca!”
She batted wide, innocent eyes at him. “Transparent about what? I haven’t seen you in weeks and we haven’t had a social moment since well before my last case, in fact. And I haven’t seen Sarah—I am killing two birds with one stone.”
He smiled and shook his head.
Francesca was about to walk out with Rourke. Then she remembered to take Hart’s stained jacket and she lifted it off the chair. On her way out, she would give it to Alfred for a cleaning.
A white stub fell from one of the pockets.
Francesca retrieved it, realizing it was the stub from a train ticket. She was about to put the stub on his desk when she saw the name of the city next to the punched hole: Philadelphia.
Her good humor vanished. She quickly told herself that the stub was an old one. Hart had not been to Philly since they had become engaged at the end of February. Becoming ill, she glanced at the date on the top of the stub.
June 1.
She inhaled, blinded by the date.
“Francesca?” Rourke asked in concern.
She hardly heard him. Hart had told her that he had gone to Boston. But yesterday he had returned from Philadelphia. She had the proof, right there in her hand.
Hart had lied to her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday, June 3, 1902—10:00 a.m.
LEIGH ANNE BRAGG WAS A petite woman with shockingly dark hair, green eyes and fair skin. She had been universally acclaimed as a great beauty her entire life. But now, applying rouge to her lips and cheeks, she saw a gaunt stranger in the mirror, a lackluster woman she did not recognize. Dark circles had been etched beneath her eyes, although she went to bed early, for she could not sleep. Worse, her eyes held a haunted look that matched the despair in her soul.
Leigh Anne sat in her wheeled chair, staring at her reflection, aware that the male nurse her husband had hired was in the hall outside of the bedroom, awaiting her every command. Her daughter, Katie, stood by her side, anxious for her to go downstairs.
Of course, Katie was not her biological daughter. When she and Rick had reconciled, he had been fostering Katie and her little sister Dot. Their mother had been murdered and Francesca Cahill had moved both girls into the house as a temporary measure. Yet months had passed and Leigh Anne had come to love both girls as if they were her own flesh and blood. Rick clearly felt the same way, and they had decided to try to formally adopt them. Leigh Anne couldn’t imagine what the house would be like without the girls—or what her marriage would be like, either.
Once, long ago, she had been so terribly in love. It hadn’t taken much to realize that, despite a four-year separation, she still loved Rick Bragg. How ironic it was to discover that her feelings had remained unchanged, in spite of so much discord, so much misunderstanding and betrayal. But it no longer mattered, because she was no longer suitable for him.
“Mama?” Katie smiled worriedly at her.
Leigh Anne hated the fact that the precious child was so astute. Katie watched her like a hawk, clearly aware of her depression and misery, rushing to fulfill her every whim, as if that might ease the pain. Leigh Anne knew the pain of loss and heartbreak would never go away. She smiled brightly at her child. “Can you call Mr. Mackenzie so we might go downstairs?”
Katie nodded eagerly and rushed out of the dressing room.
Leigh Anne watched the woman in the chair in the mirror, and saw her smile vanish the moment the child was gone. The woman she observed was attractive, though wan, and perfectly attired in lavender silk and amethysts. The woman sat in an odd chair with two huge wheels and handles that made it easier for an attendant to push. The woman was a cripple.
Leigh Anne looked away, but it didn’t matter, because the image remained engraved in her brain. She knew that every time Rick looked at her, that was what he saw: a cripple.
She rubbed her thigh, reminding herself that his pity did not matter. Her right leg ached, but there was no feeling in her left leg and there never would be again. The doctors actually thought that, with time and intensive work, she might regain some use of her right leg, but there had been too much damage to her left leg. So why would she even try to regain some use of the one limb? She would never walk again, never dance, never make love….
Leigh Anne knew she was pathetic, to be feeling so sorry for herself. She reminded herself that she was alive and she had the girls. God, she didn’t know what she would do without them! She wiped her eyes briefly. She only dared to allow herself such self-pity when she was alone. She reminded herself that she didn’t need her legs, not when she had a chair with wheels and a nurse. She reminded herself that she was fortunate, so terribly fortunate, to have suddenly become a mother to two such wonderful girls. But no amount of rationalization would ease the melancholy that weighed her down. It was like being buried alive, she thought dismally, yet death was not an option.
The telephone, which had been recently installed in the house, rang in the bedroom just beyond her boudoir. Unthinkingly she reached for the wheels, trying to turn them, but she was so weak now. Tears of frustration came when she saw the nurse reach the phone. He was a tall, attractive young man and he said, “One moment, sir. I’ll get her.”
It was Rick, she thought, her heart accelerating, and the oddest combination of dread and anticipation filled her. She wondered if it would always be this way—if a part of her would always yearn for a word from him, a look, his presence.
Mackenzie came into the boudoir. “It’s the commissioner,” he said pleasantly, easily wheeling her into the bedroom. He positioned her near the phone and she reached for the receiver before he could hand it to her, as she was determined not to let anyone see how
lost and incapable she had become. But the receiver was large and she was clumsy and it fell to the floor.
Leigh Anne blinked back more tears of frustration as Mackenzie quickly retrieved it, handing it to her.
Leigh Anne inhaled. She was doing her best not to let Rick know how miserable she was. “Rick?”
“Leigh Anne. How are you?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.
But then, they had become strangers, which was what she wanted now. “I am fine,” she said, aware of the enormity of the lie. “You went out last night,” she said just as neutrally. He had not come to bed last night. Most nights he fell asleep on the sofa in his study, which she preferred—and which she knew he preferred. She had lain in bed, pretending to sleep, wondering if he would join her, afraid that he would, and worse, that he might think to hold her. But instead, someone had come to their front door and he had gone out for the rest of the evening. She was accustomed to police affairs requiring such strange calls.
“There was a matter that required my attention at headquarters,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” she lied again, as she doubted she had actually slept more than an hour or two.
“What are you planning to do today?”
She had no plans. She was afraid to resume her old life, as she could not imagine the reaction of her friends if she called in her wheeled chair. She had accepted callers, however. Francesca Cahill called twice a week, and Leigh Anne genuinely liked her—she was very kind, pretending that nothing untoward had happened. Rick’s parents also called frequently—Grace dropped by almost every day. But it had been simply awful when her old friend Countess Bartolla Benevente had called. Leigh Anne knew that the countess had been secretly delighted by her condition. How many other of her old friends would take pleasure in her downfall? “As Katie has finished school, I think we’ll go to the park.”
“It’s a beautiful day. I’ll try to come home earlier,” he said, hesitation in his tone.
She swallowed, almost wanting him to return home at that moment. Images of their past raced through her mind, a jumbled collage of memories, all of them happy, playful or passionate. “If the matter is a serious one, do what you have to do, Rick. You know I don’t mind.”
He was silent, and she wondered if he was relieved or dismayed.
“Do you recall Daisy Jones?” he asked.
Her interest piqued. She understood the caution she heard in his tone, as the telephone operator was undoubtedly listening to their every word. It was the single drawback of the incredible convenience of a telephone—there was no privacy, ever.
Daisy was Calder Hart’s mistress, or she had been, until recently. “Yes, of course.”
Bragg said, “She was murdered last night.”
Leigh Anne gasped. “That is terrible,” she said, meaning it, even though she had never met the other woman.
“I may be late tonight after all,” Rick said, sounding grim.
Leigh Anne had many questions now. As Hart was Rick’s brother, even if they did not get along, she began to worry. “Of course.”
“Thank you for understanding,” he said. “I had better go.”
“Yes,” she said, still stunned by the news of Daisy’s murder. She knew Hart somewhat, but not all that well, and wondered at his reaction to the news.
Leigh Anne replaced the receiver on the phone’s hook. “Mr. Mackenzie? I’ll go downstairs now,” she said, thinking about Francesca now. How was she faring? she wondered. She almost smiled. Francesca was undoubtedly on the case, as no one was more intrepid than she.
As Mackenzie wheeled her out of the bedroom, Leigh Anne realized that Francesca would be working on the case with Rick. She refused to feel any jealousy, because she and Rick had a marriage of convenience and nothing more. But she knew that Rick had been fond of Francesca while they had remained separated, and no matter how she tried, a part of her hated them working together again.
“I’ll have you downstairs in a moment,” Mackenzie said with a smile. The nurse lifted her from the chair to carry her downstairs, Katie behind them. This was the moment Leigh Anne hated the most, when she had no choice but to be in the nurse’s arms as he carried her down the narrow Victorian staircase.
Her cheeks grew hot. This was simply too intimate. Leigh Anne closed her eyes, forcing herself to endure the moment. And for an instant, she imagined herself in Rick’s arms, the strongest, safest haven she had ever known.
But that was not to be. Not ever again.
“I’ll get the chair,” the nurse said, having carried her into the parlor. He placed her on the sofa and left.
Katie was watching her. Sensing her every emotion, she grasped Leigh Anne’s hand. “Mama? Can we go to the park today? You, me and Dot and Papa?” Clearly she had overheard the telephone conversation.
Leigh Anne squeezed her hand. “I am afraid your father is involved in some urgent police affairs,” she said. “But yes, we can go to the park and feed the birds.”
“Papa never goes anywhere with us anymore!” Katie cried. “Mrs. Flowers can make us a picnic and we can fish, the way we did the last time he came with us.”
Leigh Anne stiffened. The last time they had had a picnic, she had left, unable to bear such a family occasion, and Francesca Cahill had taken her place. Rick would probably still be in love with the other woman if they had not reconciled—a reconciliation Leigh Anne had forced him into.
If not for the girls, she would leave him and set him free.
Their single servant, Peter, a tall Swede, appeared on the parlor’s threshold. “Mrs. Bragg? You have two callers.”
Leigh Anne arranged her face into a smile. “Who is it, Peter?” she asked, filled with dread. If it was Bartolla Benevente, she would send her away.
“It’s a man and a woman, Mrs. Bragg. He claims to be the girls’ uncle.”
Leigh Anne seized Katie’s hand. “But that’s impossible!” The girls had no family.
“He says he’s Mike O’Donnell.” Peter was grave. “I can send him and the woman away.”
Leigh Anne began to shake. “No, no, send them in. We must find out what he wants.”
A SHORT, POWERFULLY BUILT Spaniard, Raoul had been far more than Hart’s driver and valet—he had been Hart’s bodyguard. Now he was Francesca’s personal driver. Francesca had no delusions that, given the nature of her work, Hart wished to offer her protection at all times. Having been in dire jeopardy more than once, Francesca did not mind having such a driver. Now Raoul was driving Francesca downtown amid numerous drays, carts and wagons. The Lower East Side was as different from Fifth Avenue as night from day. Hers was the only elegant passenger vehicle on the cobbled street. Numerous vendors were hawking bolts of cloth, tallow for candles and lye soap, and other wares, and the pedestrians on the sidewalks were mostly women in aprons, carrying small children or groceries. Laundry lines were hanging from window to window. A gang of adolescent boys was playing a hard game of stickball. Even on Avenue A, the noise from the Third Avenue Elevated could be heard and its smoke and soot cast a gray pallor everywhere. Finally the coach halted.
Francesca had met Joel Kennedy, a young, street-smart kid, on her very first investigation. Joel was the oldest of four children, his mother a pretty, hardworking seamstress who was widowed. During the Burton abduction, Joel had helped her navigate her way through some of the city’s seamiest sides. Francesca had needed his help, but she had also wanted to turn him away from his life of petty crime. After he had proved indispensable to her on several other investigations, she had hired him as her assistant. Now she picked up Joel Kennedy or had him meet her every day.
But young Joel was not on her mind, and neither was Rose nor the crucial questions she must ask her. Why was Hart lying to her, when they had come so far as a couple? Their relationship had been based on absolute honesty until now. How could he lie to her, and what did it mean for them and their future? What was he hiding?
Her first impulse had been to travel
to Bridge Street and confront Hart in his offices, demanding to know why he had said he was in Boston when he had been in Philadelphia instead. But Francesca had instantly seen the folly of that action. Confronting Hart was never a good idea. He had a huge, quick temper, and she would only ignite it. The current investigation had already begun to place a strain on their relationship, and Francesca did not want to add to it. If she had judged him correctly last night, he had been grieving for Daisy. She could not attack the man she loved when he was mourning. But hadn’t she seen and sensed something else in the nature of his tension? Last night, Hart had refused to discuss why he had called on Daisy. In doing so, he had pulled away from her, his usual response to a difficult situation—a response she dearly hated. Could his refusal to discuss his visit to Daisy have something to do with his trip to Philadelphia?
As rational as she was trying to be, it was hard not to be shaken.
The fact that he did not trust her hurt her terribly. She had been Hart’s staunchest supporter and his biggest ally from the first moment they had met, when she had been investigating the Randle killing. Hart had been implicated, and even then, when she had not known him, when she had been infatuated with Bragg, she had known he was no killer. Even then, she had refused to judge him solely on his notorious reputation. From the first, she had seen past his reputation and his arrogant, at times callous behavior. Beneath the ego, the confidence, there was so much vulnerability. Hart was good. She still believed that with all of her heart and all of her being. But at times, his behavior made it so difficult to remain loyal!
She stubbornly refused to concede to his many critics now. There was an explanation. She knew it, the way she knew he was a good man. Surely he had a good reason for this last deception. She would bide her time, she would not push him, no matter how she wished to. She knew from experience that any impatience on her part would backfire. She would trust him as she worked on this case, because one day he would truly trust her in return and explain everything. No matter what, she was not giving up on Hart, and not this easily.