Deadly Kisses

by Brenda Joyce

  She wondered if this could bring the two brothers together. “I can help,” she said slowly. “If you decide to proceed this way, I can help you get the funds.”

  “That’s generous of you, Francesca. But if I do decide to pay O’Donnell off, I will go to the bank for a loan.”

  Francesca knew he was in a moral dilemma. Why not have Hart help his own brother—the brother he was so jealous of—for what might be the very first time in their lives? “Rick, I can help, and I would dearly like to.”

  He finally smiled at her. “There is nothing you would not do for a person in need, is there, Francesca?”

  She smiled warmly back. “I don’t even think about it.”

  A moment seemed to pass. Francesca was well aware that she shared a very deep bond with this man, and that she always would. Inspector Newman said, “Sir? You had better come into the hall.”

  Francesca had not heard him open the door and she turned. Newman stood on the threshold, appearing very grim. Hart stood behind him, staring at her and Bragg.

  Bragg hurried out, Francesca following. She dared to look Hart’s way, aware that her cheeks had warmed. He was eyeing her coolly and suspiciously. She knew she should be pleased he cared at all, but she genuinely despised his jealous moods and their ensuing tempers.

  “What is it?” Bragg asked.

  Newman nodded at a young officer. The man came forward, holding up a knife with a large, crusty-brown blade. Francesca’s heart turned over, hard. “Is that a bowie knife?” She was certain it was—just as she was certain the blade was covered with dried blood.

  “Yes,” Bragg said. “Bag it.”

  Hart strode forward. “Where the hell did you find that? That’s not mine.”

  Bragg turned to the young officer, whose cheeks were scarlet. “Sir…sirs…ma’am,” he said, almost stuttering. His eyes were huge Os. “I found the knife in that big coach in the stables, underneath the back seat.”

  An absolute silence fell.

  This was not happening, Francesca thought, stunned.

  “Sir?” Newman spoke.

  Bragg flinched. Looking at Hart, he said, “I am afraid you will be spending the night downtown. Cuff him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Thursday, June 5, 1902—10:00 a.m.

  FRANCESCA SAT AT THE secretaire in the guest bedroom at her sister’s house, hunched over Daisy’s bank statements. It was almost impossible to concentrate. All she could think about was last night, when Hart had been taken away by the police in manacles to be detained for further questioning, while the knife was analyzed.

  He had been furious, but he had not protested his innocence another time. Instead, when Francesca had run to him, about to tell him not to worry and that she was going downtown with him, he had turned to Bragg. “I don’t want her coming downtown. I don’t want her involved. I mean it, Rick,” he had warned.

  Aghast, Francesca watched as Hart was led away. After, Rick had reassured her that all would be well, while talking her out of accompanying him back to HQ. Bragg had been right—there was nothing she could do for Hart that night. Still hurt by another rejection, she had gone to her sister’s. The household was asleep and a servant had let her in; Francesca had shown herself to a guest room. It was only while she lay in the peach-colored, canopied bed, trying in vain to fall asleep, that she had considered that Hart had been framed.

  She had passed an entirely sleepless night. The investigation was spiraling out of control, with Hart more deeply implicated in Daisy’s murder than ever. But he was innocent. Surely he would not be arrested. She was certain he had been framed—and very cleverly, oh yes. While Francesca remained convinced that the murder was committed in rage, the killer had carefully planned the crime well beforehand.

  Rose seemed the most likely candidate. After all, she had been accusing Hart of Daisy’s murder from that very night, and she hated him enough to want to frame him. She had motive, she had means and more than enough opportunity. After all, she did not have an alibi and they knew she had been at the crime scene just before the murder and just after it.

  But Bragg was suspicious of Gillespie, too. Francesca would not rule out the judge, no matter how shocked he had seemed to learn of his daughter’s death yesterday.

  And where did his wife, Martha, and his younger daughter, Lydia, fit in? Why had Daisy left home, with such disastrous consequences, in the first place?

  Unable to sleep, she kept imagining Hart in the holding cell just off of the lobby at police headquarters. The room was sparse, with several bunk beds and individual cells. He would, of course, be given a small cell entirely to himself. Francesca knew he could fend for himself and he could manage one uncomfortable night, but she ached for him. He had suffered enough in his life and he did not deserve to spend even a single night in jail.

  Francesca believed in the American judicial system. She had no doubts that Hart would eventually be freed, but she was afraid now. She had never seen him so set against her. He did not seem to be having any second thoughts about them. She was afraid that if he continued to be so adamant, she would never be able to change his position, not even after he was cleared of Daisy’s murder.

  One thing at a time, she told herself, trembling from both fear and exhaustion. Today she had a case to solve. With any luck—and they certainly needed some good fortune—the Gillespies would arrive early enough to be interviewed. And then there was Rose. If she had an alibi, Francesca thought fiercely, it was time to talk.

  There was already some good news today. She had stolen downstairs at half past six to sneak a peak at the day’s newspapers. Her sister received the Tribune, the Times and the Sun. Daisy’s murder had only been on the Sun’s front page, and there had been no mention of the fact that she had been with child when she had died. In fact, that piece, authored by Kurland, had held no new information, not even the truth of Daisy’s identity. On the flip side of that coin, however, Hart’s announcement of their broken engagement had been on the social pages of all three newspapers. In each one, he had been labeled a suspect in the murder of his mistress.

  The numbers and words on the bank-statement page before her blurred as she looked down. Francesca focused her eyesight. She had to concentrate. She glanced over the last statement. It was for May. This account had been opened in February—clearly it had been started by Hart when Daisy had become his mistress. Daisy had received two thousand dollars each and every month. The first deposit had been on February 10, the others on the first of the month. That amount would cover Daisy’s entire household budget.

  He had kept her well, she thought, a sick feeling in her heart.

  And then another figure leapt off of the page at her.

  Francesca saw that Daisy had deposited eight thousand dollars on May 8. As she read further, her tension and surprise increased. She had deposited twelve thousand dollars ten days later on May 18.

  Francesca sat up, her mind racing. Daisy had deposited twenty thousand dollars into her account in May in a very short period of time. Had Calder given her the money? Daisy had been giving them so much trouble—maybe he had hoped to pay her off. There was another possibility, too, one Francesca prayed was wrong. Maybe Daisy had been blackmailing Calder. That would take a lot of courage, indeed. But if that were the case, it only gave Hart even more motive.

  Francesca stood. She had the perfect excuse to see Hart, never mind that he had been adamant she stay away. She had to know who had given Daisy those funds. She had to find out if they had come from Hart and if so, why.

  “Fran?” Her sister’s voice came from the other side of her closed door, as did her soft knock.

  Francesca ran to the door and opened it. “You slept in,” she cried, thrilled. She had never needed her sister more.

  Connie was gazing at her with surprise. “I had a late night,” she said, as she was usually up at eight with her two children. “Fran, what has happened? Mrs. Rogers told me you spent the night!”

  Francesca took h
er hand. “Connie, I need to stay here for a while. Please tell me it is all right. I promise not to be a bother.”

  Connie seemed dismayed. “What is going on? I pray it is not what I think!”

  “I’m afraid it is,” Francesca said tersely. Connie was utterly different in nature from Francesca. She was never impetuous or rash—and never disobedient or disloyal. Francesca knew her sister would not approve of what she had done. “Papa forbade me from even seeing Calder, much less marrying him. I have moved out of the house.”

  Connie gasped and sank down on the sofa, stunned.

  “It was awful,” Francesca admitted. “And do not tell me I have broken their hearts, because I know that I have done just that. You know how much I adore Papa and how I love Mama. But Con, try to understand. I am a woman now. I am not a child, and I love Hart. I cannot be ordered about now as if I am still a little girl.”

  Connie shook her head. “But the two of you aren’t even engaged anymore—he told me so himself.”

  Francesca was no longer angry at her sister for daring to approach Calder and interfere in their engagement. “Connie, I love him and he is in trouble. I shall stick like glue to his side. You would do the same for Neil. And I believe that, eventually, he will change his mind and we will renew our engagement. I have no intention of walking away from that man.”

  Connie hesitated. “I had to speak my mind, Fran. I had to try to do what is right for you.”

  “I know. And I was very angry at first. But too much has happened since then.” She sat down beside her sister.

  Connie took her hand. “I will tell you this, he is a very intimidating man. I don’t know how you manage. But I like him even more now than I did before. He really does care about you. He was distraught. It was obvious that this breakup has hurt him terribly.”

  Francesca was pleased by Connie’s words. She wondered if she dared tell her sister the latest news. It was going to be in the afternoon papers and certainly any evening editions. Sooner or later, all of society would know about Hart’s arrest. She wished Bragg had waited.

  “What is it?”

  “Hart was picked up by the police last night.”

  Connie turned white.

  “The police found what might be the murder weapon in his coach. Someone has very cleverly framed him for Daisy’s murder!” She was grim. “Hart spent the night in jail, Connie.”

  Connie remained pale. “Fran! Can’t you hear yourself! What if Hart hasn’t been framed? Have you ever considered that the weapon was found in his coach because he left it there?”

  Francesca stood. “Hart is innocent.”

  Connie also stood. “I hope you are right! Francesca, I don’t really think Hart capable of murder, but it looks so terrible for him.”

  “Yes, it does,” Francesca said seriously. She left her sister in the sitting area of her bedroom and picked up her purse. “I am going to visit him today.” She opened it and removed the derringer, then emptied the gun of both bullets.

  “What are you doing?” Connie cried, rushing to stand beside her. “I still refuse to believe you carry a gun!”

  Francesca put the unloaded pistol and the bullets back in her purse. “I must carry a gun, as a sleuth. But I didn’t want it loaded when I call on Rose today. First, though, I need to pay a brief visit to Bartolla.”

  “Bartolla! Fran, why are you going to see Bartolla Benevente? And what are you going to do when you call on Rose?” Connie asked with obvious concern.

  Francesca smiled sweetly. “I have the oddest feeling Bartolla is playing games with our brother, Con, and I am going to put an end to them, once and for all.” She paused. “Want to join me?”

  “I am afraid I can’t, not this morning.” Connie worried her hands as they walked to the door. “You’re going to threaten Rose, aren’t you? You are going to threaten her with that empty gun!”

  Francesca was resigned. “You know me better than anyone. Don’t worry, the gun is unloaded, and I will only resort to threats if there is no other choice.”

  Connie did not look reassured.

  FRANCESCA WAS SHOWN INTO the salon by a servant, who left to inform Bartolla of her arrival. The countess was a cousin of Sarah Channing’s and was living with the Channings in their West Side home. Francesca had been to the Channings many times and no longer saw the exotic furnishings and trophy heads and hides as she paced. Once, she had genuinely liked the flamboyantly beautiful countess. Recently, she had realized she was not to be trusted and that she might not really be a friend.

  Francesca turned when she heard rapid footsteps. As Bartolla would never hurry, she knew it was either Sarah or her mother approaching. Indeed, Sarah hurried into the salon. She was clearly on her way out of the house, as she was dressed in an unusually simple but attractive light blue suit. “Francesca!” Sarah beamed, obviously pleased to see her. She rushed forward and the two women embraced. “You are here to see Bartolla? I heard Harold upstairs, advising her that you have called.”

  “Yes, I have a matter I wish to discuss with her,” Francesca said, truly surprised at how well Sarah was looking. Usually she wore overly bright and excessively adorned clothes that dwarfed her petite stature and washed out her complexion. But the light blue was lovely on her. Other than a flounce at the hem of the skirt and ruffled sleeves on the jacket, the suit was unadorned, in marked contrast to most of the clothes Sarah wore, and it displayed her slender figure to a great advantage. “How are you, Sarah? And I like your suit. Is it new?” Francesca guessed that Sarah had managed to go shopping without her mother. Mrs. Channing was renowned for her excessive and bad taste.

  Sarah nodded. “Do you think it suits me? Bartolla took me shopping—we ordered three new evening gowns and as many ensembles for day. It is so plain! And I have never worn this color before. Bartolla insisted that I stay away from those dark reds and golds I used to wear. What do you think?” she asked anxiously.

  Francesca knew that Sarah did not care one whit for fashion. But Rourke was in town. Two plus two equaled four. She grinned. “Light blue is a lovely color on you—it makes your eyes even darker, it puts a blush in your cheeks and your hair has such a rich hue now! Bartolla is right, the color and style suit you very much. So…where are you off to?”

  Sarah glanced away, but her cheeks had become pink. “I am having lunch.”

  Francesca poked her. “With whom?”

  “Just…a friend,” Sarah said.

  “Sarah!”

  “Very well, I will tell you. But do not make anything of it!” Sarah cried, flushing.

  “You are meeting Rourke for lunch,” Francesca returned in absolute delight.

  Sarah nodded. “But we are just friends, Francesca. I am not interested in romance—I am too busy with my art.”

  Francesca met her gaze, understanding perfectly. “It is not your fault that my portrait was stolen.”

  “I cannot believe that, with all those private investigators, Hart has not located it!” Sarah cried in distress.

  “Perhaps it will simply remain missing,” Francesca said, not believing it for a moment. Her portrait had no value. An art thief would steal a masterpiece. Someone had stolen her portrait for personal reasons, she was certain. She knew, with real dread, that one day that portrait was going to surface.

  Sarah reached for her hand. “Oh, Francesca, here you are comforting me, when Hart is in so much trouble.”

  “You saw the papers?”

  “Yes. But I know he is innocent, just as I know you will find Daisy’s real killer,” Sarah said earnestly. “Because you will never give up.”

  “No, I won’t,” Francesca said. “Sarah, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your loyalty to Hart.”

  “You love him, you are my friend and he has been a great patron,” Sarah said simply.

  “This is so touching,” Bartolla said, walking toward them. She was smiling, apparently having been eaves dropping for some time. Gorgeously dressed in a royal-blue ensemble that was low-cu
t for daytime and revealed a great deal of her stunning figure, she was dripping diamonds. “Francesca, darling!” She kissed Francesca on both cheeks. “How are you managing? What a terrible scandal! Hart accused of murdering his own mistress! You must be sick with worry!”

  Francesca drew back, her heart pounding. “I am completely focused on the investigation. We have several very interesting leads. I expect to find the real killer any day. Hart is innocent, so I am not worried at all.”

  Bartolla smiled knowingly at her, clearly not believing a single word she had just said. “I agree with Sarah,” she declared. “Hart would never murder his mistress. Besides, if he did, he is too clever to be accused of it.”

  It was hard to keep calm and even harder to smile back. “Daisy was his ex-mistress,” she said, knowing full well that Bartolla already knew that, “and Hart is innocent.”

  “Of course he is,” Bartolla soothed. “But it is awful, isn’t it, that he was arrested last night?”

  Francesca froze.

  Bewildered, Sarah looked from her cousin to Francesca. “Hart was arrested?”

  Francesca managed to breathe. “He was detained for further questioning. That is all.”

  “I must have misunderstood that article in the World. Hart is in jail, is he not?”

  “Yes.” Francesca turned away so Bartolla would not see how upset she was. Of course, last night’s news would have broken later that day, but someone had worked very hard to get it in this morning’s paper. Well, this time she could not blame that lowlife snoop, Arthur Kurland.

  “Oh, Francesca,” Sarah gasped, grasping her hand. “This is awful news! And you have been so brave and so confident! How can I help?”

  Francesca faced her, unable to smile now. “Your loyalty and faith is all the help we need,” she said softly.

  “There must be something else I can do,” Sarah whispered.

  Bartolla patted Sarah on the back. “Come, dear, you heard Francesca. Although we could have the cook bake a pie, and we could bring it to the jail where Hart is locked up.” She seemed to think the idea very amusing.