by Brenda Joyce
“I know that Daisy was molested by your father, Lydia. I am horrified, and I am very sorry.”
Lydia stared, her expression frozen into unreadable lines. “You need to leave.”
“I know this is a painful subject—”
“I think you know nothing, Miss Cahill, nothing!” Lydia was trembling but her face remained as tight as a drum.
“Did you know what was happening? Did you share a room with your sister? Or was she in her own room down the hall?”
Lydia’s eyes became moist. “I have no idea what you are talking about! What difference does it make if we shared a room or not?” Her voice caught.
“They had their own rooms—with an adjoining door between.”
Francesca whirled to face Martha Gillespie. She stood in the doorway of the bedroom, clad in a black mourning dress, her alabaster skin starkly pale, her eyes red from weeping.
“Miss Cahill was just leaving,” Lydia said tersely.
Francesca looked at Lydia, wondering if she was protecting her mother. She turned her shocked gaze on Martha. Surely Martha was not the killer here. Daisy—Honora—had been her daughter. But why was Lydia being such a watchdog? What were they hiding?
“I’d like to ask your mother a few questions,” Francesca said, her gaze riveted on the older blond woman.
“My mother is in mourning! Can’t you see that? She needs to be left alone!” Lydia almost shouted, and she appeared desperate.
This family had already suffered terribly, Francesca thought. She didn’t want to be the cause of any more suffering. And while she wanted to ask them both if they thought the judge capable of murdering Daisy, in order to gauge their reactions, her compassion won the day. “I am very sorry for your loss,” Francesca said to Mrs. Gillespie.
She nodded, a white-knuckled grip on her handkerchief.
“Please, Miss Cahill. This is not a good time,” Lydia said hoarsely.
Francesca hesitated, looking from daughter to mother. “I know you both want justice for Honora,” she said. “But I need your help. So please, consider another interview—at your convenience, of course.”
Martha Gillespie just stared. No one could be more despondent.
“Please go,” Lydia cried.
Francesca nodded. She let herself out, but the moment she had closed the door, she pressed her ear against the smooth, polished wood. Her reward was instantaneous.
“She is going to find out,” Martha said, her tone choked.
Lydia said, “No, she won’t. Not if you do not say anything.”
BRAGG KNOCKED ON THE door of O’Donnell’s flat. The thug was not expecting him and Bragg hoped that he was home. As he waited for a response, the wrapped leather handle of the case burned his hand. The money inside felt terribly heavy, like an anchor, dragging him down.
Images of Leigh Anne came to mind, tearful and afraid, begging him to fix this crisis, begging him to pay O’Donnell off so he would leave them alone. Another image followed, and Dot grinned at him, waving one chubby fist, while Katie regarded him out of her huge, questioning and somber eyes.
This was the right thing to do, Bragg reminded himself. Never mind that he was commissioner of police and his mandate was to uphold and enforce the law, not break it. He had to protect his family. The choice was clear. Leigh Anne was so fragile now. Every time he looked at her he saw the anguish and fear in her eyes. How much longer could she go on this way? Even Francesca agreed that the best course was to pay O’Donnell off and get rid of him instantly.
Bragg waited at the door, closing his eyes. The images in his mind were gruesome—O’Donnell gasping for his life as Bragg choked it right out of him, slowly, cruelly, purposefully. Everyone had a dark side and his had chosen this moment to assert itself. He had never hated anyone more—he had never feared anyone more.
But he would not succumb to such primitive rage. He was a rational man and he could control himself.
Bragg heard footsteps on the other side of the door. He stiffened. This was it, then.
He thought about how he knew O’Donnell as intimately as if they were lifelong acquaintances, because he had known men like him time and again. He was the scum of the earth, he would never be reformed, and he would come back to cause trouble, time and again.
He would come back, one day, for more money.
Sweat trickled down Bragg’s temples. If he wasn’t a man of the law, murder would be the only way to really ensure that the man never came back to harm them.
“Yeah?” O’Donnell opened the door.
Bragg stared.
FRANCESCA STOOD OUTSIDE THE closed front door of Daisy’s house, waiting for Homer to answer her knock. The sadness she felt for Daisy remained, and its weight was crushing. She simply could not take it.
Homer opened the door. “Miss Cahill!”
She was surprised—he was not in his dark suit, but far more casual dress. “May I come in? Are you going out?”
“We have no duties now. The house is as clean as a whistle, considering we are not allowed to touch the study or Miss Jones’s private rooms. Mr. Hart has left no instructions. I had hoped to visit my daughter on Staten Island.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” Francesca managed a smile that felt wan. “You need not stay here on my account. I came here to think.”
“Is everything all right?” Homer asked, his dark eyes on hers.
“Not really,” Francesca said.
“But…Mr. Hart has been released. He is innocent, is he not?”
Francesca tried out another feeble smile. “Yes, he is innocent. This isn’t about Hart. I have just learned some very sad facts about Daisy. I wish she were alive. I wish we had never, ever exchanged a single harsh word.”
Homer was startled, and Francesca recovered her composure, which was shaky indeed. “Please, I prefer to be alone, actually. I don’t need anything.”
Homer was hesitant, but Francesca encouraged him again, and finally he went to get his things so he could leave.
She was alone in the front hall, the door closed be hind her. Francesca glanced around at the pale, cream-colored walls, the smooth polished floors, and into the first salon, the doors of which were open. Suddenly Daisy appeared, rising from a sofa, her grace as fluid and elegant as ever. She was smiling.
Francesca sighed. It was so easy to imagine Daisy alive, the way she had so recently been. She wiped some tears from her cheeks.
“I wish I had known you better,” she whispered, walking to the threshold of the salon where Daisy had entertained her several times. “I wish I hadn’t been so frightened of you, but you were so beautiful, and I admit that I am insecure.” The empty beautifully furnished room was absolutely still. She realized she had been hoping to feel Daisy’s presence, not that that would solve or change anything. But this room was entirely impersonal now.
Francesca walked out. There were more tears. How terribly had Daisy suffered as a child? How could any man behave so foully to his own daughter? Why hadn’t someone realized what was going on and prevented it? She paused on the threshold of the study.
“I am sorry that we fought,” she whispered. “But I understand now. I really do.”
The study—small, dark and unlit, should have been cozy, but it was not. Even in the shadows, there were bloodstains all over the multicolored Persian rug on the floor. “Who did it? Daisy, I will find your killer, but I am currently at a loss. Did your father murder you?”
Of course, there was no answer. But this room did not feel empty and vacant, like the salon.
Francesca tensed. She was not alone in the small study. The hairs on her nape prickled and, filled with unease, she turned.
Martha Gillespie stood there. “Why won’t you leave the dead alone?”
Before Francesca could answer, Martha raised a small gun.
“Why won’t you leave us alone?”
IN THAT MOMENT, as he stared at O’Donnell, he wished he were more like his half brother. If the roles were some
how reversed, if it were Hart who was defending Francesca, he would not think twice about really getting rid of O’Donnell. Bragg had no doubt.
Surprise and even fear flashed in O’Donnell’s eyes. Then he saw the case Bragg carried and his relief was evident. Bragg walked past O’Donnell, thinking about the gun he wore, thinking about the East River, where so many bodies were tossed. An odd desperation had filled him. How had he gone from the pursuit of justice to a desire to commit murder?
Beth O’Brien stood by the kitchen table, her blue eyes on the attaché case he held. O’Donnell closed the door. Bragg saw that he, too, stared at the briefcase. Their greed filled him with revulsion and disgust.
“I guess your pretty wife has been telling you how hard it’s been for us these past few months,” O’Donnell asked, walking over to him.
Red rage filled him. O’Donnell had terrorized Leigh Anne. But when he spoke, he was surprised at how unemotional and calm he sounded. “She has told me that you wish for a fresh start. There are better employment opportunities in the south, I believe.” He went to the kitchen table, not looking directly at either the man or the woman, but very aware of them from the corner of his eye. Both O’Brien and O’Donnell came to stand there, as well. He laid the case down and unbuckled the two straps. Then he opened it completely, revealing the stacks of bills inside. “I imagine such a gift will be very helpful,” he said, his heart thumping with a peculiar and sickening force. He added very softly, still not making eye contact, “You can count it if you wish.”
O’Donnell chuckled and reached into the case. He removed one bound stack. “That won’t be needed, Commissioner. Hey, you know what? With relations like you, we might never have to worry about anything again.”
Bragg stepped away from the table. He could no longer control the forceful pounding of his heart. It would be so easy to seize his revolver and get rid of these two. If he didn’t, they were coming back, he knew it the way he knew the sun would rise tomorrow.
“Guess I got the little lady to thank for that.” Grinning, O’Donnell put the stack back inside the attaché case. “A wife like that would make a man do anything.”
Bragg was never aware of moving, but suddenly his hands were around O’Donnell’s throat, squeezing as hard as he could. O’Donnell was against the kitchen wall, his eyes bulging and his face turning red. “You fucking bastard! Never speak of my wife again.”
O’Donnell’s face changed from red to purple. It would be so easy now.
“You’re killing him!” Beth screamed, seizing him from behind.
He was killing this lowlife, and no one would ever know. They would be free.
O’Donnell began to wheeze, panic in his bulging eyes.
He would know.
Bragg released him, stepping back. “Never mention my wife again,” he snarled. “Do you understand me?”
O’Donnell fell to his knees, clutching his throat, now blotched red.
O’Brien cried, “Get out. Just get out. We have the cash—get out!”
He turned to look at her. Her eyes were filled with hatred and her face was no longer benign or grandmotherly at all. He couldn’t kill O’Donnell—and he could not do this, either.
“You are both under arrest,” he said, and he reached into his jacket. Then he snapped one manacle on O’Brien’s wrist, the other on the leg of the table, his actions forcing her to sit down. She gaped in shock.
He hauled O’Donnell to his feet. The thug was coughing now. Bragg cuffed him, as well.
“You will regret this!” O’Donnell managed hoarsely.
“I almost did,” Bragg said.
MARTHA GILLESPIE AIMED A double-barreled derringer directly at Francesca’s head. Francesca’s heart plum meted. She was almost certain that she had found Daisy’s killer.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Gillespie?” she asked very carefully. She still clutched her purse, where she had her own pistol, but she did not dare move.
“My family was destroyed a long time ago,” Martha said harshly. A tear tracked down her face. “Now you will destroy what is left of us.”
“I don’t want to destroy anyone,” Francesca said softly. “I was Daisy’s friend. I only want justice.”
“If only you had left us alone!” Martha cried, her hand shaking, the gun wavering.
“You knew, didn’t you? You knew that your husband was taking advantage of Daisy.”
“Not at first,” Martha whispered. “Of course I didn’t know, not at first! But then Daisy began to act strangely. She stopped smiling. She never laughed. She would not speak to Richard. She had adored him, but then she flinched when he touched her. I was glad when she ran away!”
Francesca was stunned. “Maybe Richard was the one who should have left.”
“It was not his fault! She was always too beautiful, even as a little child. Then, when she became a young woman, the way she walked, the way she carried herself…everyone noticed. She was temptation, Miss Cahill, evil, carnal temptation. I have no doubt that she lured Richard into her bed.”
Francesca felt ill. “She was twelve years old.”
“Was that when it began? I didn’t realize what was happening until just before she left. Richard had said he was coming up to bed, but he never did. I wasn’t well. I needed a doctor, so I went looking for him. You can imagine where I found him.” She trembled even more and more tears fell.
Richard had been sexually abusing Daisy for three years and her mother had never known it. “Surely, surely, you made certain that it never happened after that night.”
“I left them alone—I had to leave them. Richard doesn’t know that I ever discovered his secret.”
“You had a duty and a responsibility to protect your child, Mrs. Gillespie. You never confronted your husband?” Francesca was aghast.
“I never confronted him,” Martha cried. “How could I? Could you? I am sorry, I did not have the courage!”
Francesca’s grief for Daisy grew. “When did you decide to kill her?”
“I am not an evil woman—like she was. There is a reason she became a prostitute. She was blackmailing us! Richard told me that he had found her and that she refused to come home. I was glad—I would have never let her back in the house. One night I found him crying. He told me he was sending her money, that he wanted to help her, but I knew instantly that she was blackmailing him with her dirty secret.”
“So you hated your own daughter?”
Martha lifted her chin. “I loved my daughter. Until she became a harlot—until she lured Richard into sin. And then I had every right to hate her.”
Francesca could only stare, sickened.
“Mother, don’t say another word!” Lydia rushed into the room, her wide eyes going from her mother to Francesca and back again.
“She is trying to destroy our family, Lydia,” Martha said firmly.
“That isn’t what she intends. She only wants to find Daisy’s killer, Mother. She did not know that would destroy what was left of us.”
So Lydia knew her mother had murdered Daisy. “You knew, too, didn’t you? You knew what your father was doing to your sister?”
Lydia faced her, beside Martha. “Yes.” Her expression was ravaged. “I knew. In the beginning, when he left her room, I would go to her and she would cry in my arms. But it didn’t take long, Miss Cahill, for the tears to dry up.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Francesca demanded.
“I was ten years old!” Lydia cried, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I hardly understood. I was thirteen when Daisy ran away, Miss Cahill, and we both pretended that nothing was wrong after it all began. It hurt too much otherwise.” She was a ghastly shade of white. “The truth is,” she managed, shaking, “it wasn’t until I learned that Father had found Honora here in the city and that she was a prostitute that I really understood what had happened when we were children.”
Lydia had managed to block the ugly reality out. “I’m sorry. Why did you frame Calder Hart?
”
“To protect my mother. Hart’s involvement with my sister, and the fact that he was here the night she died, made it so easy to frame him. All I had to do was come back to the city and put a bloody knife in his coach. I did it Wednesday. Now please go away!” Lydia cried. “Go away and leave us alone.”
Francesca was shocked. “Lydia, this is a tragedy. But your father needs to pay for what he did to Daisy and your mother murdered her.”
Lydia stared at Francesca, her expression tight and strained. Then, never removing her gaze, she said, “Mother, give me that gun.”
Instantly, Martha handed it to her daughter. As instantly, Lydia pointed it at Francesca. “I know you won’t understand. But please, try. I hate my father. I have hated him since he first went to Honora. I loved my sister—I missed her every day that she was gone—but I was glad she had left. I prayed she would find happiness, but she didn’t. Because of my father, she is dead. Mother is all I have left. Please try to understand. Please, don’t take her away from me, too.” And tears began to slowly fall down Lydia’s cheeks.
Francesca ached deeply for her. “Your mother killed Honora, Lydia. You do know that?”
“I know. I discovered her in the act—and I helped her flee.”
Francesca stared. Lydia was an accessory to murder. “Where is the murder weapon?”
“I threw it in the bushes of the neighbor’s. What are you going to do, Miss Cahill?” Lydia asked.
“How can you ask me to walk away and pretend that I know nothing?” Francesca replied, aware that Lydia was no longer aiming the gun, but held it loosely at her side.
“I am not asking you, I am begging you,” Lydia whispered. Then she raised the pistol. “And if my pleas do not move you, then maybe this will.”
Lydia trained the gun at Francesca’s head. Did she know how to fire the weapon? How good was her aim? “You are not a killer.”
“I will protect Mother at all costs. We should have never come to the city!” she cried, and her hand wavered.
Francesca rushed her, tackling her at her waist. As Lydia fell backward, the gun went off, but the shot was wildly off any mark. If the gun was fully loaded, Lydia had another shot left, but Francesca wasn’t sure that was the case or that Lydia even knew it. Francesca seized Lydia’s hand, which held the gun and their eyes met.