by Brenda Joyce
She nodded, worried now about what O’Donnell wanted from the Braggs.
“Francesca, I am so sorry about what happened between us earlier today,” he said suddenly. “It was wrong for me to speak as I did. It was out of place and entirely unacceptable.”
She bit her lip. “Rick, I can’t fight with you. I hate it. I still care too much,” she whispered honestly. “And it hurts too much.”
His expression tightened, as if he fought himself. “I am on your side,” he finally said. “And I will always be on your side.”
She nodded, tearing up. “I want to help you if I can. If O’Donnell is intent on some kind of extortion, you must tell me.”
He walked out from behind his desk and reached out. She slipped her hand into his. “You don’t have enough on your plate?” he asked softly.
She was aware of his body’s heat, and she could not help recalling moments they had shared, before Leigh Anne had returned to their marriage, before she had fallen for Hart. She did not want to think of such intimacy and she moved away from him. Feeling herself flush, she said, “There is more. Rose was at the house between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m. She and Daisy argued over Daisy refusing to move out. And she still will not name her gentleman caller. I doubt she had a client that night, and that means she may have never left Daisy’s.”
Bragg nodded. “I think she would have revealed his name, if he did exist. Good work, Francesca.”
She thrilled to his praise, but quickly sobered. “I asked her if she did the deed. She denied it. At the time, I believed her. But, Rick, I will say this again—Rose was angry with Daisy. She had motive, and she seems to have had means.”
“I happen to agree with you,” Bragg said. He hesitated, and his cheeks seemed to flush. “I really do hope that Hart is innocent. I know Hart and I are always at odds, and that your engagement has only fueled the rivalry we share, but in spite of what I said earlier, he is my half brother.”
Relief made her knees buckle. She seized both of his hands. “I am so glad to hear you say that!”
He smiled a little at her. “I was angry when we spoke earlier.”
“I know—and it is my fault for lying to you.” She tried not to think about Alfred now. She wished she had not suggested that he alter his version of the previous evening’s events.
He did not comment on that. “Try to convince Hart to come forward and admit his reasons for being at Daisy’s last night.”
“I will try, but I will wait until his mood improves,” Francesca said. “He is very distressed about the murder.” She paused. “Did Newman speak with Hart’s staff?”
“Yes, he did.” Bragg gave her a strange look. “Alfred claims Hart was at home, exactly as he said he was. I wonder.”
She swallowed, her heart racing. “What do you mean?”
“I think Alfred is a very loyal servant. He has worked for Hart for years. No one else can corroborate his statement. I am not inclined to accept it just yet.”
In a way, Francesca was glad. Still, she quickly moved to the next subject. “There is more.” She told him about David Masters and George Holstein.
“I’ll put Newman on it. Hopefully he can interview both men today—or at least before you return from Albany. I suppose you want to take the news articles with you?”
“I really need to read them carefully. I was going to do so tonight, but I can actually do it on the train.”
“Check with the front desk when you leave. There might be a schedule lying about.”
Francesca nodded. She had no excuse to linger now, but a part of her was reluctant to go. Somehow they had weathered the earlier crisis and she was so grateful. They were almost a team once again.
“I had better get going,” she said. “Especially if I am off to Albany as soon as possible.”
“By the way,” Rick said when she was at the door, “your sister was here a few hours ago, looking for you. Apparently she heard about Daisy. She seemed very worried, Francesca. She asked me to tell you to stop by her home the moment you can.”
Francesca was very close to her older sister. In that instant, calling on Connie and sharing all of her burdens and woes seemed the perfect way to end a long day of work. “I’ll stop there on my way home,” she said, wondering if Hart had ever received her note. They needed to meet that evening, especially as she now planned to leave town for a day or two.
Bragg nodded. When his telephone rang, he answered it, listened closely and said, “Send them to the conference room.” He hung up abruptly. Francesca paused, glancing at him. He appeared grim.
Her heart skipped. “What has happened?”
“You should stay. Daisy’s housemaid and house keeper have just arrived, and apparently they have something they wish to say.”
Francesca felt a new tension. “What else could they say? Annie already witnessed that argument between Daisy and Calder on Thursday.” But she had a very bad feeling, oh yes.
Bragg stood, crossing the room. “I guess we are going to find out,” he said, opening his door more widely for her.
Francesca felt ill. She somehow knew that whatever the two employees had come to elaborate upon, it was not going to be helpful to Hart’s case. She could only hope that she was wrong.
An officer appeared at the corridor’s far end, walking beside Annie, who was red-eyed from weeping. She was wringing her hands nervously together. Francesca had met the housekeeper, Mrs. Greene, on a prior occasion. Now, she was very pale and appeared tense. Both women were ushered into the conference room, where Bragg greeted them. “Thank you for coming to head quarters,” he said. “Newman is in the field, but Miss Cahill and I will try to be of help.”
Annie sat down at the long table, her mouth trembling. Mrs. Greene said, “We made a promise to Miss Jones, sr. All of us who worked for her, we made her the same promise, not to ever talk about the goings-on in that house.” A tear slipped down her face.
“I understand,” Rick said, glancing at Francesca.
She took her cue, stepping forward, trying to appear professional and not dismayed. “But Daisy is dead, and while we all should respect her wishes and her need for privacy, her killer must be brought to justice. If you need to break that promise in order to help us find her killer, that is what you must do.” She smiled reassuringly at both women.
“We know that,” Mrs. Greene said frankly. “I mean, we have spent most of the day thinking about how kind Miss Jones was, how fortunate we were to be in her employ, how she never treated us as anything less than thinking, feeling people. Never mind her unsavory reputation, she was a fine woman and a real lady.”
Francesca found it interesting that her staff had thought so highly of her and that they now grieved so genuinely for her. “Do either of you know who called on her last night, other than Rose?”
Mrs. Greene and Annie shared a look. The house keeper said, “We already told the police everything we know about last night, Miss Cahill. No, this is about the argument she had with Mr. Hart on Thursday.”
Filled with dread and despair, Francesca knew she did not want to hear this.
As if reading her mind, Bragg laid his hand on her shoulder. “Go on.”
Annie looked worriedly at Mrs. Greene, then turned imploringly toward Francesca and Bragg. “I wasn’t honest when I said that I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I could. They were shouting, carrying on so loudly, I heard every word,” she blurted and tears welled in her eyes.
Francesca was so afraid now that she could not speak.
Bragg said, “It’s all right. We understand that you had made a promise to Miss Jones. But your decision to come forward today and tell the complete truth is entirely appropriate, Annie. It is the right thing to do.”
“I know,” she whispered, looking with absolute worry at Francesca.
“I was there, too,” Mrs. Greene suddenly said harshly. “Not the entire time. Annie was the one who eaves dropped from the first, but I was bringing refreshments and I heard them, just b
efore Mr. Hart stormed out.”
“Why were they arguing?” Bragg asked. “Why was Daisy in tears? And why was Hart so angry?”
Annie stood up, her hands moving nervously. Her whisper was so low that Francesca had to lean toward her to hear her words. She said, “Miss Jones was with child.”
Francesca heard her own sharp intake of breath.
“Miss Jones was with child? Hart’s child?” Bragg demanded, stunned.
Annie nodded, not looking at Francesca now. “Yes. She told him and he seemed not to believe it, not at first. But she would not back down. She told him to speak with her physician. And that was when he became silent and she began crying.”
Francesca realized she was gripping the back of a chair. Daisy had been carrying Hart’s child.
“Then what happened?” Bragg asked tersely.
Annie wiped her eyes. “She started saying she knew he would take care of her and the baby, no matter what, even if he married Miss Cahill. And he started shouting at her, telling her she had done this on purpose. I really can’t remember everything, but it was awful, sir, just awful, the way she wept and the things he said to her.”
Francesca sat down, her face in her hands, incapable of any rationalization now. There was only raw feeling, disbelief and shock and a deep, deep sickness.
“He was cruel,” Mrs. Greene said abruptly. “I remember his exact words, as they were too horrible to ever forget.”
Francesca closed her eyes tightly, reeling. Vaguely, she felt Bragg’s clasp on her shoulder. “What did he say, exactly?” Bragg asked.
Mrs. Greene hesitated. “I don’t want your goddamned child.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tuesday, June 3, 1902—4:00 p.m.
HOW COULD THIS BE HAPPENING? Francesca wondered, vaguely aware of everyone leaving the room. She gripped the table, feeling dizzy and faint. Daisy had been pregnant with Hart’s child and he hadn’t told her. She reminded herself that he had only just found out, the day before he had left on his business trip—if he had actually gone on a business trip! Was that why he had gone to see Daisy last night? To discuss the child?
If Daisy had not been murdered, Hart would have had a child with another woman.
“Take this. It might help,” Bragg said quietly, from be side her.
She realized he was holding a glass. She took it, her hand shaking. She had not heard him return to the room.
“It is bourbon. I plead guilty—I keep a bottle in my office for the nights I remain here working past any decent hour.” He smiled at her but his gaze was terribly concerned.
She didn’t even try to sip the bourbon. She didn’t look at Bragg—she couldn’t. Another woman had been carrying Calder’s child, and the fact that she had conceived before Francesca had become involved with Hart didn’t dull the sick sense of betrayal.
“Francesca, let me help,” Bragg said softly.
How could he help? she wondered. If only she could think, then surely she would not feel so ill. Francesca tried to organize her thoughts. Daisy was dead, the illegitimate child she had shared with Hart was dead, and he had more motive than ever. He was in trouble. She looked at Rick Bragg. If she focused on the case, she could manage this crisis and recover her composure. “You know Hart would never murder a woman who was pregnant with his child.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. Very carefully, he said, “I know you are upset. This is a terrible shock—a terrible situation. I don’t want to talk about the case. I want to talk about how you are feeling.”
She inhaled, forced a smile and said too brightly, “I am fine. I mean, this was an accident.”
“Clearly,” Bragg said with care, studying her.
Francesca realized she was hugging herself defensively. “Daisy conceived before I became engaged, Rick.”
“Probably so. Francesca, do you really want to defend him now?”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes filled. “What am I going to do?” she heard herself whisper.
He put his arm around her. “Don’t make any decisions just now, Francesca. Maybe you should attempt to discuss this with him.”
“I know I should not feel betrayed, but I do.”
He pulled her into his arms and held her there. Francesca finally allowed the tears to freely fall.
Stroking her hair, Bragg said, “Hart is not the first man to be confronted with an unwanted child.”
She pulled away so their eyes could meet. “I know that. I can’t seem to think clearly.” She wiped her eyes. “He has always claimed his past was sordid and ugly, but I never cared. I genuinely didn’t care about his previous lovers. Except for Daisy. She managed to bother me—I felt threatened! And now we find out that she was pregnant. Today, his past feels like the present. And I wish it weren’t here!”
“He has a past, and the reputation to prove it,” Rick said quietly. “You knew it from the start. But it’s very different to be told about something than to have it strike you in the face. I am sorry, Francesca, truly sorry.”
The implications of Daisy’s pregnancy hit her then. If her parents ever found out, they would never support her marriage to Hart. This was another huge scandal in the making. Any other well-bred lady would disengage herself from her fiancé in such a situation. She was stunned, but she could never leave Hart—not even because of this. She could not imagine her life without him at its center.
Francesca stood, shaken. She must focus on the cur rent investigation. There was no point in dwelling on her scrambled and uncomfortable feelings. “I am overreacting,” she said flatly. “I am acting like a witless ninny—like a spoiled, selfish debutante. This happened in February, or even earlier than that. I hardly knew Hart last February!”
Bragg was silent.
She slowly looked at him. “Please don’t look at me that way, as if you know what I should do—as if you believe I should leave him!”
“That is your decision to make.”
“There is no decision to make.”
Bragg looked away from her, clearly in disagreement.
And suddenly a bell went off in her mind. Francesca straightened, her thoughts racing. Hart’s child was dead. And Francesca saw him as he had been last night, the shadow of grief in his eyes. In that lightning moment, she understood, and her own feelings did not matter. “Hart is mourning.”
Bragg started and rose. “Francesca,” he protested. “You had better look carefully before you leap. Hart didn’t want the child and two witnesses heard him say so.”
“No,” she cried breathlessly. If there was one thing she did know, it was that he had not meant those terrible words of rejection. “He is grieving—I saw it last night, in his eyes, but I thought it was because he still cared about Daisy.” She became grim. “Are you going to arrest him because Mrs. Greene and Annie both heard him say he did not want the child?”
“The evidence against him is mounting.”
“It is circumstantial,” she flashed, suddenly afraid for Hart in spite of her own confusion.
“Many murderers are convicted on circumstantial evidence,” he pointed out.
She backed away. “Don’t do this!”
He reached for her, but she dodged him. “Francesca! I am not going to arrest him without more proof.”
She nodded. “Good. I have to go.”
He grabbed her arm. “You are going to comfort him?” He was incredulous.
“Yes.” More tears came, and she swatted at them. “I am going to get past this. He never meant to hurt me this way. Hart needs me now, more than ever.”
Bragg was rigid. “Of course he didn’t mean to hurt you—he will never mean to hurt you!”
Francesca saw his contempt and anger. She could not care, not now. She ran out.
ROURKE FOLLOWED A CLERK down the hall of Hart’s office building, one of several from which Calder conducted his various business affairs. Hart’s office door was open, revealing a large, spacious room with views of the New York Harbor and the Statue o
f Liberty. Hart was engrossed in the papers on his desk, but as Rourke and the clerk paused, he looked up.
“Mr. Bragg, sir,” the young clerk said.
Hart smiled but it did not reach his eyes. Rourke hadn’t expected to find him in the best of spirits, but instantly he saw the shadow of grief on his face. Uncertain now, he entered the room as Hart stood and walked out from behind his desk.
“Rourke! I am pleased you are back in the city,” Hart said, clearly meaning that. He embraced him briefly, surprising Rourke, as Hart was not prone to displays of affection. A greeting from Hart was usually no more than a firm handshake. “Does this mean you have attained your transfer?”
“I’m not certain,” Rourke said with a smile. “I’ll know in a day or two.”
“Are you certain you don’t want me to pull a few strings?”
Rourke shook his head. Hart had offered to speak with one or two directors of the Bellevue Medical Hospital in order to make certain Rourke was transferred to the college. Rourke had refused, surprised to learn Hart would have leverage even at Bellevue. “Why don’t we wait to learn my educational fate?”
“If you insist,” Hart said, turning away, his smile vanishing. He seemed terribly preoccupied.
Rourke laid a hand on his shoulder. “I heard about Miss Jones.”
Hart tensed and pulled away. He slowly turned. “And did you hear that I found her, Rourke? Stabbed viciously to death?”
Hart was distraught, Rourke saw—almost anguished. “I hadn’t realized you still harbored feelings of affection for Miss Jones,” he said cautiously, an image of Francesca coming to mind.
Hart gave him a hard look and wandered to the window. “I don’t. But no one should have had to suffer such a brutal and untimely death.”
Rourke didn’t know what to believe. Hart was clearly in grief. “Are you somehow blaming yourself?”
Hart made a disparaging sound. “I am not so noble or so misguided.”
“That is a relief,” Rourke said before thinking about it. “Francesca asked me if I would mind coming downtown.”