Deadly Kisses

by Brenda Joyce

  Francesca closed her eyes in despair.

  “How could you lie to me?” Bragg asked, agonized. “After all we have been through? Is it me that you don’t trust?”

  Francesca opened her eyes and their gazes met and held. “I hated lying to you. But I know how much you and Hart relish going at each other! You shouldn’t be on this case if it is personal for you, if you cannot be objective, if you secretly think to crucify your brother!”

  “I have no desire to crucify anyone.” Bragg was shocked. “And I hope for your sake—and my father’s, and Grace’s, and Rourke’s sakes—that Hart is innocent. But damn it, Francesca! It doesn’t look good! What in hell was he doing there in the first place, and what was he doing there for an entire hour?”

  “The coroner said she was murdered between seven and nine,” Francesca cried. “Not between eleven and midnight!”

  “I can think of several good reasons for the killer to return to the scene,” Bragg snapped.

  “He is your half brother,” Francesca cried desperately. “Rick, you are so generous with everyone else! If you can give a stranger the benefit of the doubt, why can’t you give your own brother that same benefit? Can’t you find it in your own heart to want to help him, and to want happiness for him?”

  “Are we talking about the case, or your future and your marriage? Francesca, you chose to become involved with a dangerous, difficult man. I warned you. Your father is against Hart, too. But you can be impossibly headstrong, and you have made up your mind. I hope Hart is innocent, but I have no delusions about him—the way you seem to. Maybe you should walk away from this case, if it is so personal for you.”

  She was ready to cry. “I can’t. And I know he is innocent. I know it.”

  “I think you protest overly. Rose said she overheard Hart threatening Daisy at Kate Sullivan’s funeral.”

  She went rigid, shaking her head. “He did not mean it that way!”

  “So he did say something to you about getting rid of Daisy?”

  “No! He assured me that Daisy would not hurt us or our relationship, that is all,” Francesca cried, painfully aware of what she was doing. Concealing Hart’s exact words was no different from lying to Bragg again. But thankfully, Rose hadn’t seemed to quote Hart precisely. “You are so busy preparing to indict Hart, have you even stopped to consider that Rose has just as much motive?”

  “She is also on my list of suspects. Right now, Rose hasn’t given herself an alibi. She refuses to identify the gentleman she was entertaining last night. I am sure her judgment is lacking because of her grief. I am inclined to think that shortly we will also have a rock-solid alibi for Rose.”

  Francesca spoke in anger now. “You want Rose to have a rock-solid alibi so you can continue to investigate Hart!”

  Bragg seemed just as angry. He walked over to the fire place and stared at some of the photographs above it.

  “Rose hates Hart with a passion,” Francesca cried, walking over to him. “She was insanely jealous of his relationship with Daisy. Because of Calder, she and Daisy broke up for several months. She was jilted by Daisy, Bragg, and we need to check this out.”

  “I intend to follow every single lead,” he said slowly, with more calm. “But Hart is right on one point. He told me last night that he did not want you involved in this investigation.”

  Francesca dug in her heels. “Unless you think to charge me with obstruction of justice, I am on this case.”

  Bragg studied her for a long moment. “Maybe it is a good idea that you are on this case. Maybe you will finally realize just what you are in for, if you proceed to marry Hart.”

  “Maybe you will finally realize just how unfair you are to him,” Francesca shot back. She grabbed his sleeve. “I understand why Hart hates you, Rick. He is jealous of you, because you have a real family by blood, because your father wanted you and his did not, because, to this day, he thinks your mother loved you more than she did him.”

  “Then he needs to get on with his life,” Bragg flashed.

  “He remains jealous that we ever were involved, too. But mostly, he is jealous that you have such a stellar reputation—one that is deserved.”

  Bragg stared. “What is your point?”

  “I understand him, but I don’t understand you. Why are you as jealous of him?”

  Bragg searched her eyes; Francesca did not flinch. He finally said, “I’m not jealous. But because I continue to care so much for you, I hate the fact that he will ruin you, Francesca, in one way or another.”

  “You don’t know that. And maybe it is not your place to sit in judgement on him as you do,” Francesca cried.

  “I am going to tell you something about your fiancé,” he said very harshly. “I spent my childhood taking care of him, protecting him, rescuing him, until Rathe rescued us both. Our mother was too busy and then too ill to do any of those things. I remember helping him eat supper when he was in diapers—I couldn’t have been much older than three! I remember going to the corner grocery, a few coins in my pocket, holding Hart by the hand. I was maybe six, maybe seven—he was four or five. I remember giving him a glass of milk for break fast when Lily was too ill to do so. Damn it! He never tried to return a single favor, he never once showed any gratitude, he never even tried to be my brother. He has spent his life thinking only of himself, doing whatever he pleased, come hell or high water. It took me years to realize that the brother I yearned for and cared for didn’t exist, and never would. Something is wrong with your fiancé. He has one goal in life—to serve his own selfish needs. I am judging Hart the way I would judge anyone.”

  “That’s not true,” Francesca whispered, stricken by Bragg’s indictment. “And there are two sides to every story. Maybe he was too jealous of you to ever be the brother you hoped for and deserved. Somehow he was scarred terribly by his childhood, while you were not.”

  “We both grew up hungry, wearing hand-me-down, patched clothes. We both grew up watching our mother service men—until we had to watch her die. Don’t tell me I am not scarred. I knew I was never going to be like those johns—not ever—I knew I would never use any one, and that instead, I would help everyone that I could.”

  “God knows why the very same past pushed you into a life of good works and Hart into a life of scandalous self-indulgence,” Francesca said, saddened. “Isn’t He the only one who should judge here? It isn’t too late, Rick, not if you don’t give up.”

  He stared, his expression twisted with his own anguish.

  “It’s not too late to forgive and forget. It’s not too late for the two of you to find your way back to each other. You’re brothers.”

  “Oh, it’s way too late,” Bragg said harshly. “Tell him to get a lawyer, because I am fairly certain he will need one.”

  She was alarmed. “Are you going to arrest him? How can you arrest him! You said yourself Daisy was killed before nine, and Hart didn’t get there until close to midnight! What about Rose? She was there at the scene before Hart.”

  “I told you, I haven’t ruled Rose out. But Hart could have gone to Daisy’s directly from the Grand Central Depot, arriving at half past seven. What if they had another argument?”

  “And he what?” Francesca said scathingly, furious now. “He stabbed her in a fit of anger and then ran away, but later returned to remove evidence of the crime? Hart is not a killer. And he has too much self-control to kill in such a manner.”

  “Oh, really? I seem to recall an explosive temper, Francesca.”

  “And have you questioned his staff? I am sure that any number of servants can testify to his presence at his house from eight o’clock on. That would not leave a very large window of opportunity for him to murder Daisy, now would it?”

  “Newman is there as we speak.” He didn’t look at her now. Walking over to his desk, he sat down and began to read a file. Clearly he was upset and wished for their discussion to be over.

  Francesca could not believe that Bragg seemed so ready to believe t
he worst of Hart, and that he really thought him capable of murder. The tension between them had be come huge, and it felt impossible to surmount.

  Bragg looked up briefly, his expression closed. “We still need your statement. You can give it to Newman, or if he’s not in, to a junior officer.”

  She nodded. Then she made a decision and she dared to walk over to him. “Rick.”

  He didn’t glance up, so she covered his hand with her own and he was forced to meet her regard.

  “I am going to prove him innocent.”

  His expression was rigid. “Believe it or not, I hope you succeed.” He started to remove his hand from hers, but she grasped him more tightly, not letting him go. In surprise, he looked up at her again.

  She held his gaze. “I don’t want this case to come between us. We cannot argue this way. Your friendship is important to me, and it always will be important to me—even after I have married Hart.”

  He stared. “You lied to me, Francesca. Did you really think I would not find out?”

  “Then be angry at me. But don’t take it out on Hart,” she cried, trying not think about the lie she had convinced Alfred to tell him.

  He stared at her and she stared back. Then he sighed. “I despise arguing with you, but it’s too late. Hart has come between us, hasn’t he? You lied to me to protect him. And as long as you remain with him, he will always be between us.”

  His telephone began to ring and he promptly picked it up. Francesca turned away. It had been this way almost from the start, with her somehow caught between the two men, like some awful prize each intended to win.

  Bragg’s tone caught her attention. “Leigh Anne!” he sounded anxious and surprised. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  Francesca looked at him, instantly concerned, but he was so absorbed that he had clearly forgotten she was present. A ripple of sadness running through her, Francesca crossed the room and left.

  LEIGH ANNE HAD NEVER called him at work, not even once, and he was seized with fear. “Is it the girls?”

  “Rick,” she gasped, and he realized she was highly distressed and close to tears. He did not know when he had last seen her cry, as she was so determined to pretend to be strong in front of him. “They are fine, but it is about the girls!” And he heard her choke on a sob.

  He willed himself to be calm. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

  He could hear her harsh intake of air. “We had a caller—callers. A man named Mike O’Donnell and his aunt, an older woman named Beth O’Brien.”

  He knew the name, but it took him a second to place the weathered blond longshoreman. “Mary O’Shaunessy’s brother,” he said grimly, and his heart quickened with dread.

  “Yes, the girls’ uncle—and Mrs. O’Brien is apparently their great-aunt. Rick! Why did he appear after all of this time? What does he want?”

  He already suspected what O’Donnell wanted. The man was a ruffian in every way. He had been difficult during the course of the investigation involving the murders of his sister and wife, during which he had briefly been a suspect. Bragg and Francesca had learned that he had a quick temper, that he frequented bars and saloons, and that Mary had been afraid of him. O’Donnell was the kind of thug to take advantage of the new family connection. Leigh Anne had been through so much. She didn’t need this now. “Tell me what happened,” he said calmly. “Tell me everything.”

  “I don’t want to lose the girls! Did our lawyer file those papers for their legal adoption yet?” Leigh Anne cried, desperation in her tone.

  “We won’t lose the girls,” he said firmly, and that he did not doubt. “O’Donnell couldn’t manage his own daughter—last I heard, she was in a foster home. There’s no reason for you to worry.”

  “Katie and Dot have a cousin?” Leigh Anne gasped, and Rick instantly understood her concern.

  He sighed. “I will check on her, but O’Donnell did not appear in order to take the girls away from us. Now, tell me what he said.”

  He felt her gathering her thoughts and composure. “He was very pleasant, actually, as was Mrs. O’Brien. He says that his sister’s death changed him. He seems to be very devout, Rick.”

  Bragg doubted that. “Is that it?”

  “He just wanted to visit the girls and make certain they were well. He asked if he could come again. What could I do? He was polite, I had to tell him yes.”

  Bragg thought about the visit he would make to Mike O’Donnell. The girls did not need such a thug in their lives. And he doubted that his sister’s death had changed O’Donnell at all, much less that he was suddenly devout. “Did he tell you when he would come again? Did you learn where he lives?”

  “I invited him back on Wednesday, so you could meet him.”

  “That was very clever, Leigh Anne,” Rick said. He saw an officer passing in the hall and snapped his fingers at him. “Hold on,” he told his wife. To the sergeant, he said, “Dig up the case file for the cross murders,” he said. “And find me the last known address of Mike O’Donnell, husband of one of the victims and brother of the other.”

  “Yes, sir,” the beefy sergeant said, exiting.

  He returned to the conversation on the telephone. “Leigh Anne, I don’t want you to worry. O’Donnell’s visit doesn’t change anything. I will call Mr. Feingold and see if the adoption papers were filed, and I will ask him to speed the process up. Meanwhile, I want you to think about something else. Are you still taking the girls to the park?”

  There was a brief silence. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  “I think you should keep to your original plans. It is a beautiful day.”

  She hesitated. “Rick, Katie was afraid of her uncle.”

  He could imagine why. From what he vaguely recalled, O’Donnell had bullied his wife and sister; he had probably bullied the girls, too. “Leave O’Donnell and the adoption to me,” he said.

  “Of course,” Leigh Anne whispered.

  “Leigh Anne,” he said quickly, his grasp on the receiver tightening. “I will make it a point to come home at a reasonable hour, no later than six o’clock.”

  There was a moment of silence. She said, “I think that is a good idea, Rick. Thank you.”

  And oddly, his heart leapt with pleasure at her words.

  FRANCESCA HAD RAOUL PARK her carriage around the block from Daisy’s, out of view of anyone who might look out of the house’s front windows. She did not wish to be discovered by Rose if she was still at the house. In order to make certain she could pass incognito, they had made a detour on their way to Daisy’s, stopping at B. Altman’s. Francesca had bought a ready-made skirt and blouse and had changed out of her own clothes in a dressing room in the store. She had also purchased a straw bonnet, which she now wore. At a quick glance, her disguise would do.

  Joel would be waiting for her on the corner of Fifth Avenue, a half a block up the street from Daisy’s. Francesca approached and saw him loitering beneath an elm tree. Sensing her presence, he turned, saw her and broke into a jog. “Miz Cahill!” He grinned at her, and she could tell that he was pleased with himself.

  She tugged on his ear. “Spill the beans, my fine young man,” she said, using slang she had learned from him.

  “I got a neighbor who saw a lady calling on Miz Jones last night before dark, maybe at six or seven o’clock.”

  Francesca halted in her tracks, surprised. “Joel! Who is this neighbor and did she get a good look at Daisy’s guest? Daisy was murdered between 7:00 and 9:00 p.m.—maybe she saw the killer!”

  Joel continued to grin. “The woman wore a green dress and she had dark hair. She arrived by cab. The neighbor is right there,” he said, pointing to the adjoining house. “Her name is Mrs. Firth.”

  Francesca could not move. She voiced her thoughts. “Rose was wearing a green dress last night—Rose has dark hair.” And Rose certainly did not own a carriage. “How well did Mrs. Firth see the caller?”

  “She said she only saw her briefly, as she was
coming in, herself.”

  “Rose still has no alibi,” Francesca said slowly. Her heart was thundering in her chest. “Perhaps this bit of news will provoke her into revealing the name of the gentleman she says she was with last night.” Had Rose called on Daisy between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m.? If so, she had had a narrow window in which to have murdered her friend. Francesca knew she had to consider the possibility that Rose had called on Daisy at six, then gone on to meet her client, returning later, but that scenario felt awkward, oh yes. She made a mental note to question Rose again, as well as Mrs. Firth. Although it did not sound likely, it would be a great day indeed if Mrs. Firth could identify Rose as that caller. And she still wanted to search the house for clues. “Do you know if Rose is at Daisy’s?”

  “I saw her leave at least an hour ago,” Joel said. “Don’t you want to talk to her?”

  “I do, but what I really want to do is search the house for any clues Daisy might have left behind as to her past, or other significant people in her life.” Francesca tried not to think about the fact that searching the premises could be construed by the police as interference in their official investigation. She had briefly debated telling Bragg what she intended, but then she had decided against it. He had been very preoccupied when she had left. If she found something useful, she would certainly share it with him, she just wanted to analyze whatever she might find by herself first. Her every instinct told her to proceed alone now, just in case more incriminating evidence against Hart surfaced. As she and Joel started for the house, she said, “Does Mrs. Firth know how long the caller stayed?”

  “I didn’t think to ask,” Joel said, clearly dismayed. “Darn!”

  She patted his back. “You have done a wonderful bit of sleuthing today. Now, how can we sneak inside with out alerting the staff?”

  “They got a back entrance to the kitchens, but I wouldn’t use that. There’s a door on the terrace by the back gardens. It was open earlier, Miz Cahill.”

  Several moments later they had stolen past the delivery entrance without being remarked, had crossed the rioting gardens out back, and slipped into the house via the French doors on the terrace. There was no sign of staff. Francesca imagined they were worried about their future and that continuing their daily routine was the last thing on their minds.