by Brenda Joyce
They had both become involved in several of Francesca’s cases, which was how their friendship had formed. Sarah had even been attacked in the course of one investigation, an incident Rourke did not like recalling, as he had been there and Sarah had been hurt. But that had been last February, and it had been well over two months since he had paid the Channings a visit. But his behavior was excusable enough—after all, he was at tending medical school in Philadelphia, and like all med students, his schedule was hectic, allowing almost no personal time.
Still, given the time that had lapsed since he last called, he wasn’t really sure of his reception. Rourke decided that was the cause of his anxiety. He paced, ignoring the other trophies alternately staring, grinning or growling down at him from the salon. Sarah’s late father, Richard Wyeth Channing, had been an avid big-game hunter, and he had spent most of his life in the wilds across the world. Rourke wondered whether his widow would ever redecorate their huge West Side home. He tried not to be judgmental, but all of society seemed to delight in Mrs. Channing’s extreme lack of good taste—behind her back, of course.
He heard a rustle of movement and felt his heart skip. Slowly, smiling pleasantly, he turned.
Sarah had just entered the hall from its far end, and her brown eyes were huge in her small oval face. She came forward, clad in a simple skirt and shirtwaist, her curly brown hair swept up very haphazardly. He noticed a smudge of paint on her white blouse and his smile became genuine. He crossed the hall to meet her. “Good day, Sarah. I hope I am not interrupting, but I have the feeling that I am.”
She did not smile back, her eyes searching his. “This is quite a surprise, Rourke,” she said as if filled with tension.
His pleasure began to fade. “Am I interrupting?” he asked somberly.
She sighed. “I was in my studio, but I am afraid I have been blocked for some time. And how could you interrupt? You saved my life.”
He hesitated, trying to read her, but all he could discern was that she seemed troubled—and that she did not seem eager to see him. Oddly, he was somewhat hurt. “That was a long time ago, and you hardly owe me.”
She gave him a look, then smiled slightly. “I certainly owe you, Rourke. Come into the salon and sit down.” She led the way. “I am afraid Mother is already out for the day. How have you been?”
He waited until they had entered the other room. “I have been very busy. I applied for a transfer to Bellevue Medical College, and I feel certain I will receive it. I expect to be moving any day now.”
She turned away before he could see what she was thinking. “I had heard,” she finally said, glancing up at him.
He heard himself say, “I had hoped to be the one to tell you.”
She just stared, and he wondered if he saw hurt in her eyes. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? “Sarah, I sense something is wrong. Have I offended you in any way?”
She seemed surprised. “Rourke, how could you have possibly offended me?”
Without thinking twice, he reached for her hand. She stiffened, but he clasped it, anyway. “I hope that is never the case!” he exclaimed. “I treasure our friendship, Sarah.”
She blushed and tugged her hand away, avoiding his eyes. “When will you know if you have been accepted at Bellevue?”
“Any day now,” he said, studying her profile. She was a petite woman, and while he clinically recognized the fact that she was somewhat plain in appearance, from the first time they had met he had been drawn to her in an unfathomable way. He had heard other young ladies calling her mousy behind her back, but she wasn’t, really. She had a small, upturned nose, a sweet rosebud mouth, and those huge dark eyes, which could undo any man. And he had seen her hair down once. Sarah had the hair of a Greek goddess, waist-length, wild and curly.
She finally smiled fully at him. “And shall I be the first or last to know?”
He grinned back. “If I tell you first, will I be redeemed in your eyes?”
“Rourke, I meant what I said before. You saved my life—I will always owe you. There is no need for redemption.”
He became aware of his heart pounding, slow and strong but almost aching, the hunger deep and quiet. “Do you want to tell me what is wrong? I should like to know. If I can, I should like to help.”
She met his gaze, hers filled with worry. “No one has told you?”
“No one has told me what?”
She wet her lips. “You remember, don’t you, that Hart commissioned a portrait of Francesca from me?”
He could not imagine where she was leading. “Of course I do. You were so wildly excited to do it.”
Sarah bit her lip. “I finished it, Rourke, in April. Hart was pleased.”
He did not understand. If Hart, a world-renowned art collector, had been pleased with the portrait, why was Sarah so upset? “I’m glad. Do I get to glimpse the work of art, as well?”
Sarah wrung her hands. “It’s gone.”
“It’s gone?” he echoed foolishly.
“It disappeared shortly after I unveiled it for Hart. It was stolen, Rourke, right here from my studio, from this house.”
He was surprised, but instantly, he took her hands in his, hoping to reassure her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry it was stolen, and I hope the authorities can locate it, but Sarah, if they can’t, you can paint another portrait.”
She was ashen. “You don’t understand. The portrait was of Francesca entirely unclothed. Somewhere in the city is my nude portrait of Francesca, and if it ever surfaces, she will never be accepted in polite society again.”
For once, Rourke was so stunned that he was speechless.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday, June 3, 1902—Noon
FRANCESCA RUBBED HER ACHING temples as her carriage moved up Mulberry Street, approaching the squat, square brownstone that housed police headquarters. She had not stopped thinking about her interview with Rose since leaving Daisy’s and she was anxious to go over the case with Bragg. She was afraid Rose’s statement had incriminated Hart even further in Daisy’s murder. She continued to believe him innocent, but her protective instincts had never been as consuming. What was Bragg now planning? She felt as if a clock were ticking, right there in the carriage beside her. She had to find another suspect, one as apparently involved as Hart appeared to be—it had become her overriding priority. Of course, that suspect could be Rose.
Joel had stayed at Daisy’s to continue to look for some kind of witness to the sordid and ugly affairs of last night. He despised the police, anyway, and Francesca had told him she would meet him on a designated street corner in a few hours.
Raoul braked the carriage. Through her window, Francesca glimpsed Bragg’s handsome motorcar parked in front of the station between two police wagons. As usual, a pair of roundsmen was standing not far from it, keeping the passersby at bay.
Francesca was slammed into the past. Her heart ached now, the handsome black Daimler bringing back so many bittersweet memories. The inhabitants of Mulberry Bend had apparently become oblivious to the vehicle, although months ago, when Bragg had first taken up his appointment, every crook and thug in the ward had gathered about it, wide-eyed with awe. Last January, before she had begun to fall for Hart, Bragg had been her best friend. It had been an exhilarating time when she had discovered her talent and passion for investigative work, and it had also been a time of awakening. Bragg was the first man she had ever kissed.
Since then, their lives had taken distinctly diverging paths. Still, a certain foundation remained—a foundation of respect, admiration and deep, abiding affection and trust. Up until last night, they had been so honest with each other. Francesca felt as if she were on the verge of lying to him once again. But wasn’t she? After all, her motives in joining the investigation and finding Daisy’s killer were clouded by her need to protect Calder Hart. Now Bragg was expecting her to give her statement to the police, but she was hoping to discern exactly what he was thinking and what the police in tended to
do next.
Her life felt as if it had become impossibly complicated. And if she dared to reflect on Calder’s deception about his recent business trip, then she had to admit that it had.
Forcing her reservations aside, Francesca stepped down from the carriage and quickly went up the concrete front steps of the building. The lobby was crowded, with a number of civilians angrily and loudly lodging their disparate complaints at the front desk, where Sergeant Shea appeared irritated and harassed. An officer had a very scruffy sort in handcuffs, about to book him at another desk. In the far end of the room were the holding cells and they were full, half of the occupants sleeping off their drunks. One scantily clad prostitute was clinging to the bars, smacking kisses at the police men who passed. Telephones were ringing, typewriters clicking, telegraphs pinging. Francesca looked across the crowded room to the elevator and stairs.
Her heart lurched, for Arthur Kurland was coming down the stairs, looking rather pleased with himself.
She was afraid he had just learned the actual facts of the case. And if that were so, he knew she had deliberately attempted to mislead him. Francesca hurried over to the front desk, rudely pushing to the front of the line, ignoring the protests and exclamations she was causing. There, she inserted herself between a pair of gentlemen, hunching over the counter and ducking her head. Hoping for invisibility, she waited breathlessly for Kurland to clasp her shoulder from behind and smugly claim victory over her, but a long moment passed in which no such event occurred. Francesca finally lifted her head and turned. Kurland was gone. She sighed in relief, and then apologized to the two annoyed men.
She gave Sergeant Shea a quick wave, but he was so busy he did not notice, and hurried to the elevator. She might have escaped a confrontation with Kurland, but he had probably learned the truth about last night. She could not imagine what tomorrow’s headlines would be and she hoped they were not too malicious or defamatory.
She pushed open the door and entered the iron cage, closing the door again and pressing for the second floor. A moment later the engine whirred and the cage began its slow ascent. Francesca wrestled with the heavy door once more and then hurried down the hall to Bragg’s office.
The door was open but he was not at his desk. It was a small room with a fireplace, above which he kept a dozen photographs of his family, his friends and a very interesting photo of himself with Theodore Roosevelt before he had become the president. His desk was in front of a window which looked down on Mulberry Street, a cane-backed chair behind it. Francesca walked in and paused by his desk. She stared briefly down at the stacks and piles of files and folders cluttered on his desk. Of course, she could not snoop, but she recognized one of the topmost folders—it was a coroner’s report.
Her heart instantly accelerated and her fingers itched to lift it.
Fortunately, Bragg chose that precise moment to walk in. She straightened, smiling at him, feeling like a thief caught red-handed.
His gaze moved from her face to his desk, as if he knew exactly what she had been about to do. His smile was slight, as if reluctant. “Good morning, Francesca. I was beginning to think you had forgotten to come downtown.”
She could not smile back, for she was too nervous now. “I think the morning has passed. Of course I did not forget that you need a statement from me.” Their gazes held and she gave up her attempt at social nice ties. “Rick! Is that Heinreich’s report?”
“Yes.” He nodded, studying her. “You look tired, Francesca. Didn’t you sleep at all?”
She saw the concern in his eyes and she melted, remembering all of the good in their relationship instead of the distasteful positions they now found themselves in. Truthfully, she said, “How could I? I was Daisy’s friend, at least until recently, and in spite of any awkwardness, I never wished her ill.”
He did not speak for a moment. “Francesca, I know you as well as I know anyone, I think. You would never wish harm to a fly. Another woman might have despised Daisy, but you would never allow petty jealousy to rule you.”
Francesca was grim. He still had so much faith in her. “But I was jealous of her, Rick.”
“You weren’t jealous of her. You were afraid of her—undoubtedly because you did not trust Hart where she was concerned.”
She gasped and he gave her a dark look. “I know too much about your private life for you to attempt to mislead me, even in the slightest way.”
Francesca inhaled. “I do trust Hart!” she exclaimed. “It was Daisy I did not trust!” And the moment the words were out of her mouth, she realized she had been manipulated. She stared at him, aghast.
He chose his words with care. “You have been in a difficult position, Francesca. The outside world might see it very differently than I do. I know you were not involved in Daisy’s death. But you cannot speak about your feelings so openly,” he said seriously.
He was trying to protect her, she thought, melting all over again. She walked closer to him. “You don’t have to protect me, Rick. Not in this case.”
He smiled a little at her. “You are a dear friend. If I need to, I will protect you.”
She was moved, and she turned quickly away so he would not see the sudden rise of tears.
He said softly, “Francesca, I know that you would never compromise your morals, not for anything or anyone, but I can also see that you are worried about Hart. And I know how big your heart is. No one is kinder or more caring than you. Don’t be tempted into trying to protect him.”
She wondered just how much he knew about Daisy’s malicious behavior, and she faced him. “Rick, Calder did not kill Daisy and we both know it.”
“I don’t know who killed Daisy, and it would be un professional of me to release Hart from any suspicion, considering his relationship with Daisy.”
Francesca was taken aback. She swallowed hard, folding her arms across her chest. “Then I should be a suspect, too.”
“The coroner’s report was clear. Daisy was murdered between 7:00 and 9:00 p.m. last night. You were out with your parents, and you did not arrive at Daisy’s until midnight.”
“So I am off the hook?” She was grim. “If we are being so terribly honest now, then you may as well admit that you would never indict me, even if my alibi proved to be a lie.”
“But you have a solid alibi and it isn’t a lie.” He shook his head. “I told you before and I will tell you again—Hart is not good enough for you and you are only going to get hurt if you continue on with him, especially now.”
She trembled. “I know you believe what you are saying. I really do. But I believe in him. We have become very close, Rick.”
He started.
Francesca flushed, suddenly realizing he had misconstrued her words. “I know him well and he did not kill Daisy,” she said firmly. “You almost sound as if you are hoping this case will break us apart.”
Bragg walked away from the desk. It was a moment before he spoke, facing her. “I know you would be hurt at first, if the engagement ended. But you can do better.”
She did not know why they always found themselves at this place, this point. “I don’t want to do better,” she said, and she had said those exact words to him before.
He made a harsh sound. “Daisy was killed in a fit of rage. She was stabbed six times with a medium-size bowie knife. While we have not recovered the weapon—and we may never recover it—the blade was probably five inches long and an inch to an inch and a half wide. The stab wounds were randomly placed, and some were so deep they were probably delivered in a two-handed manner. The conclusion is inescapable—the murderer was furious with Daisy.”
Did this mean that Bragg also knew Hart had been furious with Daisy last week? She said slowly, with care, “I just interviewed Rose, and Daisy’s staff.”
“Good. Then you know that the maid stated that Hart fought with Daisy last Thursday afternoon, breaking a door and reducing Daisy to tears. I know that Daisy tried to hurt you recently, Francesca, in an attempt to get Hart back.
Was that why Hart was so angry with her? Or was it because she refused to leave the house when he told her to get out last month?”
Francesca continued to hug herself. Bragg had definitely been doing his homework. She walked away from the window, away from him. “He was angry. So was I. Neither of us was furious, Rick.” She faced him. “Daisy was my friend—until recently. Recently, she became difficult. But Hart showed no inclination to bother with her. In fact, as you must know, except for last Thursday afternoon, he has not been at the house in months.”
“But we really don’t know that, do we?” He was hard. “Daisy always dismissed the staff when she was entertaining Hart. She would dismiss them two, three even four times a week. It was very rare for anyone to know who was calling on those evenings. I hate to be the one to point this out, but Hart could have been a frequent guest.”
“Why are you doing this?” Francesca gasped, shaken and stunned. “Why are you suggesting that Hart was having an affair with Daisy behind my back? You are happy now, you have your marriage back, you are with your wife! Surely you do not want me! So why can’t you leave Hart and me alone? I am happy, Rick!”
“Are you really? Do you really, in your heart, trust Calder? Is that why you lied to the police last night?” he demanded. “If you truly believed in his innocence, you wouldn’t be lying to the police—to me—in order to protect him!”
She froze. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry Francesca, but I spoke with your father this morning. You got home at midnight last night. There is simply no way you were at Daisy’s at midnight. The earliest you could have arrived there was half past.”