Deadly Kisses

by Brenda Joyce

  The clerk was wide-eyed. “You’re that female—I mean, that lady sleuth I read about!”

  Francesca could not help being pleased. “Yes, I am. And this is terribly urgent. I’m afraid it cannot wait until next week.”

  “Let me ask the judge if he will see you,” the clerk said to her. “I will do my best.”

  Francesca thanked him and paced nervously. Only an instant passed when Gillespie’s door opened and he came out with his clerk.

  The judge was of medium stature and build, with features that had remained distinguished and handsome in spite of his years. He had graying hair and blue eyes, and he greeted Francesca with some surprise and bemusement. “I am afraid I have not read about you as my clerk has,” he said, shaking her hand and then glancing at her card. “But he tells me you are a very famous investigator and that you have solved some sensational cases.”

  “I am not certain I am all that famous,” Francesca said with a smile. “But I have solved a number of cases. In each one, I worked very closely with the police, and I am assisting Commissioner Bragg now. Might I have a few moments of your time, Your Honor?”

  “Of course,” he said, seeming pleasant enough. He gestured, and she preceded him into his office. Unlike the Spartan antechamber, his office was wood-paneled and one wall contained a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with tomes. Behind his desk, a pair of windows looked out over the city square between the city government buildings. It was a lovely view of the small park, with some pedestrians passing through, and the horses and carriages queued up on the street.

  Gillespie closed the door behind them, offering her a seat. Francesca took it and he sat down behind his desk. “How can I help you?”

  Francesca spoke directly. “Do you know Miss Daisy Jones, Your Honor?”

  He looked at her blankly. “I do not recall the name. It is unusual,” he said, “almost comical, so I should think if I had heard it, or if I had met Miss Jones, I would at least vaguely recall it.”

  His blank look was at odds with his previous expressions—or so she thought. His denial almost seemed as if it was forced.

  She had the strongest feeling that Judge Richard Gillespie knew Daisy Jones. “I have a sketch, made by a newspaper artist. Maybe you will recognize her.”

  He seemed indifferent. Francesca handed him that morning’s Tribune, which she had snatched up just out side of her train’s gate. A beautiful rendering of Daisy was on the front page, next to the headline, Prostitute Stabbed to Death. Anyone who knew Daisy would recognize her from the portrait.

  Judge Gillespie took the page, glanced at it, and Francesca saw his hand begin to shake. He knew her—he was lying.

  He quickly handed the front page back to her. He had become pale, but he smiled at her. “I am afraid I do not know Miss Jones,” he said. His tone was strained.

  Francesca slowly stood. “Your Honor, I am afraid I do not quite believe you,” she said.

  He gripped his desk, not rising.

  Francesca thought he seemed distraught. “She knew you, and well, I think,” Francesca said more softly. “I found an entire box of news clippings in her bedroom, and every single one of them contained a mention of you, Your Honor.”

  He continued to grip the edge of his desk, his knuckles white. “I did not know Miss Jones.”

  Francesca leaned over the desk toward him. “She was brutally murdered two nights ago, Judge Gillespie. Someone viciously stabbed her to death six times with a bowie knife. I am going to bring her killer to justice, but I need some help. If you knew her—and I am certain that you did—then help me find her killer. You are a judge. Your life is dedicated to the pursuit of justice!”

  He did not look up at her. “I did not know her,” he whispered harshly now.

  Francesca felt her temper rising. “Well, she certainly knew you!” She took another card and laid it on his desk, not far from his hands. “I feel rather certain that the New York Police Department will want to speak with you. Whatever you know, we need to know it, too.” She hesitated. “Daisy did not deserve to die. Her child did not deserve to die.”

  He flinched and looked up at Francesca. “She was with child?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  And Gillespie moaned and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders began to shake. Stunned, Francesca realized he was weeping. She went behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I am so sorry for your loss. But please, help me now, so I can find her killer.”

  He pulled away. “You may be right. I think—” He choked, unable to continue.

  Francesca was puzzled. “What do you think?”

  “I think that she is my missing daughter.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Wednesday, June 4, 1902—Noon

  IN SPITE OF HER CONFUSION, elation swept through Francesca. “You think she’s your daughter?” Was this the connection to Daisy’s past that she had been hoping for?

  Gillespie choked on a sob. “She looks exactly as Honora did, but Honora, she…she left home…many years ago.”

  Francesca was almost certain that Gillespie had known that his daughter was Daisy Jones from the start. From the moment she had mentioned Daisy, his behavior had subtly changed. She was operating on instinct now. If he had known that Honora was Daisy, then he had probably known that his daughter had left home to become a prostitute, Francesca thought. But she wasn’t sure he had known that she was dead. He appeared to have been genuinely shocked by the news of her murder.

  Francesca could comprehend why he had denied knowing Daisy. He was a judge with a reputation to guard. He would not want to admit that his daughter had become a woman of the streets.

  “Sir, if Daisy was your daughter, I am terribly sorry for your loss,” she said sincerely.

  He inhaled. “Thank you.”

  Francesca hesitated. “You are very distraught. But before you grieve, we should decide whether or not Daisy Jones really was Honora.”

  He looked at her, ashen. “I know she’s dead,” he whispered. “I just do.”

  “Because you knew she had become Daisy?” she had to ask.

  His jaw tightened. “I didn’t know. She left us, with out a word. There was not a single letter— God, it was as if she hated us!”

  Francesca absorbed that. “May I sit? Can we try to discern whether or not Daisy and Honora was the same person?”

  “Yes, of course, we must do just that.” Suddenly his eyes filled with tears. “Martha—my wife—how will I tell her?”

  Francesca waited for him to compose himself. He seemed truly shocked by Daisy’s murder, but she knew very well that appearances could be deceiving. “I knew Daisy. We were friends.”

  “You knew her?” He seemed surprised.

  “Yes, but not well,” Francesca said. “I met her when I was on a case. Sir, it had always been obvious to me that Daisy came from a very genteel background. I learned from another friend of hers that she first came to the city eight years ago, having run away from home. You just said she left you?”

  Gillespie replied. “Honora left home when she was fifteen years old. That was eight years ago—eight years and two months. She vanished in April.”

  This was the proof, Francesca thought. The dates could hardly be a coincidence. “Her friend told me that she was fifteen when she first arrived in the city. Given those facts and her resemblance to Honora, I think we can agree that Daisy was your daughter.”

  Gillespie just sat there. Francesca knew she was going to have to press him, but that could wait. His wife didn’t even know about Daisy’s—Honora’s—death yet.

  Gillespie finally said, “It’s Honora. That sketch—it’s identical to my daughter. I have a portrait of her at the house, painted on her fifteenth birthday, just two months before she went away. You’ll see.”

  Francesca had to speak with the rest of the family, anyway. “I should love to see it, Your Honor.”

  He suddenly looked her right in the eye. “I want
to know who did this to my daughter,” he cried. “I want the murderer brought to justice.”

  “The killer will be brought to justice, have no fear,” Francesca said. “Sir, I want to respect your grief, but there are many questions I am going to have to ask if I am to find this killer. This was a crime of passion. Someone who knew Daisy well, wanted her dead, and was very angry when he or she killed her. I am afraid this investigation will be a highly personal one.”

  “I understand completely,” he said. “He or she? You think she may have been killed by a woman?”

  Francesca paused. She had to consider the possibility that Gillespie hadn’t known Honora was Daisy. In that case, he hadn’t known she was a prostitute until Francesca showed him the telling headline, and he didn’t know that his daughter had a female lover, either. Even if he had known where Honora was and how she had been living, Francesca felt sorry for him. There was little doubt that he had loved his daughter and that he was grieving now.

  “Miss Cahill.” He was sharp. “You seem uncertain—or is it reluctant? What are you keeping from me?”

  “Quite a bit,” she said grimly. “I should like to let you grieve with your family before you learn all of the facts of this case, but it is very sensational, and the city press is all over it. If you read any of the New York newspapers, which I am sure that you do, you are going to learn these facts, sooner rather than later. They will be difficult for you to understand. Maybe you should go home, sir, and speak with your family. We can continue this conversation tomorrow.”

  He slowly rose to his feet. “I want to know what you’re not telling me. I want to know all of these so-called facts.”

  Francesca did not want to wait until tomorrow to continue her investigation; too much was at stake. “As you saw from the headline I showed you, Daisy—Honora—was a prostitute.”

  “A prostitute,” he echoed, as if he had never before heard the word. “What are you trying to say, Miss Cahill?”

  “She was a very expensive, very exclusive prostitute. Recently, she was a mistress. Your Honor, why would she choose such a life, when she could have had a life of comfort and privilege in society?”

  The office had become so oddly silent that Francesca could hear her own breathing. “Dear God. I don’t know.”

  Francesca could not decipher the look in his eyes. “There had to have been a reason that she left home,” she began.

  “What does that have to do with her brutal, vicious murder?” he cried.

  “I don’t know,” Francesca returned softly. She would tell him about Rose at another time, she decided. And she was not about to reveal that her fiancé had been the man keeping Daisy.

  “This will destroy my wife,” he said grimly. “Martha has been my anchor all of these years. She already suffered so vastly when Daisy disappeared from our lives. But now? I don’t know if she can manage this. And my other daughter, Lydia, adored her older sister…she will be devastated. We have to bring Daisy home,” he added as he started to cry. His tears were very real. But if he had already known that Honora was turning tricks in the city, then he could be a suspect, too.

  “Your Honor, I am sure you will be able to bring Daisy home. And your wife will find out if you do not tell her. It is in all the city newspapers.”

  “No!” Gillespie held up his hand. “I will tell her—when the time is right.”

  “Was Mrs. Gillespie close to her oldest daughter?” Francesca asked.

  He began to struggle for composure. “Of course they were close. They were very close. She adored Honora—as did I, and as did her sister. Honora was beautiful and perfect in every way.” He paused.

  “I want to see my daughter.”

  Francesca thought that was a very good idea. She wanted Gillespie in New York City, where she and Bragg could interview him at length. In fact, she wanted the entire family there.

  “I think the police will want a statement from you, sir,” she said. “I happen to have a train schedule—”

  He waved at her. “I am in the city frequently and know when the trains run.” He finally walked away from his desk to stare out of the window at the city square. “I have to go home and tell Martha that our daughter is dead,” he said. “Dear God, how did this happen? Why did she have to leave us in the first place?”

  “You said she did not leave a note when she ran away?”

  “No. She just left. At first, we worried that she had been abducted from her own bed.” He faltered. “She was so perfect, Miss Cahill, and so beautiful. She was graceful, witty, charming and kind. Everyone who knew her loved her. We had such plans for her. She would have been a debutante the following year, and one day, a great society hostess. There were no doubts that Honora was special.”

  Francesca could imagine Daisy as a young lady and felt that Gillespie had not exaggerated. “There must have been a reason for her to leave like that. Perhaps your wife knows, or your other daughter?”

  “It has been years,” he cried. “Why does it matter?”

  “It might not matter—or it might be extremely relevant to her death,” Francesca said. “I am afraid that, at this point, I can leave no stone unturned.” She gave him a chance to assimilate that. “I suppose the police ruled out an abduction?”

  He turned away.

  “Judge?”

  “She went to bed that evening and was gone in the morning. Lydia saw that she had taken a bag with clothes and jewelry. So we immediately knew that it was not an abduction, Miss Cahill.”

  “You did not call the police?” This was very interesting indeed!

  “It was bad enough that she was gone. I wanted to spare my wife and younger daughter any scandal.”

  Was that true? Or had he hoped to spare himself a scandal—protecting his own reputation at the expense of finding his daughter?

  “We even considered that she might have run off with some young man—although Martha and I felt certain she hadn’t been seeing anyone. Lydia assured us, as well, that there was no young man in Honora’s life.”

  “I will have to speak with your wife and daughter at length, as soon as possible.” She didn’t add that she would also interview him again.

  “They don’t even know that she was in New York all of this time, selling herself to the highest bidder!”

  “When will you be going to New York?”

  “Tomorrow. I will be on the first train. I have to see her!”

  “Maybe you can bring your wife and daughter with you.”

  His gaze widened. “I don’t know. I can’t seem to think clearly—yes, perhaps they should come.”

  “It would be very helpful to the investigation,” Francesca told him, firmly but gently.

  “I will take that into consideration,” Gillespie said, very much speaking as if he were on the bench. “Miss Cahill, I need some time alone before I go home.”

  She understood completely. “Of course you do. Judge? I am very sorry. I liked Daisy very much. In spite of how she lived, she was a lady.”

  He brushed the rising tears. “Thank you.”

  Francesca nodded and started for the door.

  “Miss Cahill? I will be staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. You may reach me there.”

  THE COUNTRYSIDE HAD CHANGED. Francesca stared out of the window of the speeding train, Joel napping beside her, his cheek on her arm. Farms and pastures were finally giving way to factories, busy cobbled and dirt streets, shops and tenement buildings. Working men and women with sacks of groceries were rushing on foot to their homes. They had reached the Bronx, but there would be no more stops until they arrived at the Grand Central Depot. She hugged herself, her heart aching terribly.

  She had made copious notes about the case, until she could no longer avoid the huge hurt she had buried deep inside her chest. She would be home in an hour or so—and just ten blocks from Calder Hart’s. Very, very shortly, she would be back in the city, and she could no longer avoid her feelings—or him.

  She didn’t see a single
building, a single wagon, a single person or tree as the train raced on.

  I am not leaving you.

  No, you are not. I am leaving you, Francesca.

  In the three months of their engagement, she had learned that his first response to a personal crisis was to withdraw from her and try to push her away. He did not like discussing his feelings, and certainly not his fears.

  She had seen his guilt and grief and knew he was afraid of the future. These were matters she wished to discuss, and she was not giving up, even if this rejection had felt so final. Surely, when this case was closed and the real killer had been brought to justice, Hart would come back to her.

  But Francesca could not deny her feelings. She was filled with doubts. She was very afraid. One of the problems with Hart was that he was so unpredictable. Only last month, he had confessed to her that he was falling in love with her. Francesca had been thrilled. Now she realized her elation should have waited. Leave it to Hart to refuse to admit to solid feelings of affection. If he had been falling in love with her, had he now simply changed his mind and resolutely brought that process to a halt? No one could be more stubborn and more effective than Hart. It was a reason she so admired him; now it was the reason she was so afraid.

  This morning, he had meant what he had said, that their engagement was off. She had seen the anguish in his eyes, and knew it hadn’t been easy for him.

  She had told him she would never give up on him. In her mind, this was a temporary separation. Had he understood that? And if so, where, exactly, did that leave them?

  She already missed him. Was she still allowed to call on him at whim? Why should she wait for their paths to cross when she desperately wanted to see him? When she desperately needed to see him? More importantly, once she saw him, she would have a better idea of the mood he was in. Maybe he was having regrets and a change of heart.

  Her decision was made. She would make a quick stop at home to change her clothes—she wanted to look beautiful and attract all of his male interest and attention—and she would go directly to Hart’s. Her train was arriving at half past six; she should be at Hart’s shortly after eight o’clock.