Deadly Caress

by Brenda Joyce

  He refused to contemplate the fact that she thought that she "loved" Rick.

  Bragg stood when Hart reached the table. He was not in a good mood, as he was scowling, an unusual expression for him. Hart instantly wondered what Francesca had done to cause his irritation. He smiled then, to himself. She had the worst penchant for putting herself in danger, all in the good cause of helping some needy soul. But the trials and tribulations of a relationship with Francesca Cahill were surely worth it. In any case, as he had put his neck on the chopping block, he would soon find out. He sat down. "My, we are dour today."

  "Good day, Calder," Rick said with a terse nod.

  Hart decided this would be an amusing luncheon after all, and he lolled a bit in his chair. A bottle of red wine was being placed on the table. "Chateau Lafitte? At a luncheon? Are we celebrating?" He knew that was not the case.

  "I am sure you are pleased that I am out of sorts today, but no, we are not celebrating. I have a migraine," he said, nodding at the waiter to open the wine.

  "Is she giving you a run for your money? She can be a bit of trouble, I suppose. What has she done now that I don't know?"

  "She is hardly giving me a run for my money." Rick grimaced. "But she has given me this migraine. She dared to come down to the office this morning," he added.

  Hart was confused. After all, Francesca was frequently at headquarters. "Odd, I thought you enjoyed having her downtown."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Rick said savagely. "The last thing I need is Leigh Anne appearing at my place of business."

  Hart's eyes widened when he realized that they were not discussing the same woman. "I was referring to Francesca," he said mildly, enjoying himself now more than ever. Oh, ho! So his brother was out of sorts because of his gorgeous little wife. He should have known. Nothing had changed, now had it?

  Bragg was tasting the wine, and he choked. "Francesca?" he asked. Then, setting the glass down, "Why are you staring at me as if I have grown two heads?"

  "Apparently she is not the woman on your mind," Hart said, flashing his teeth in a bare imitation of a smile. "Don't you think you have hurt her enough?"

  "You may mind your own affairs where Francesca and I are concerned," Bragg said flatly. He turned to the waiter. "The wine is very good."

  Their glasses were filled. Hart made no move to pick up his menu. "I really meant it. Your friendship with Francesca is putting her in a terrible position and you know it."

  "Don't you ever think to be her defender," Bragg snapped. "That role hardly suits your black heart. We are both struggling to do what is right. Neither one of us expected Leigh Anne to appear in our lives."

  "So what did you intend? To take a young, untried, and innocent woman as your mistress?"

  "No," he said slowly, "that is not what I intended and you know it. Nor did I intend to fall in love with her. But it happened, and now we are both suffering for it."

  In a way, Hart felt sorry for his brother, too, but as Rick had always gotten the respect and accolades, he refused to entertain such compassion now. Let Rick sleep in his own untidy bed. "How long will Leigh Anne be staying?" He couldn't wait to hear the answer.

  Bragg looked at him, positively suffused with anger. "Six months."

  His curiosity escalated wildly. "How odd that you do not send her away."

  Bragg set his wineglass down. "You know, I did not come here to discuss my wife—or Francesca. I came here to discuss a case."

  Hart hardly wanted to talk police business, although he did wish to know what Francesca and Rick were working on. "Well, that is a new twist." He did not touch his wine. "What dastardly crime has been committed now?"

  Bragg drummed his long fingers on the table. "Grace Conway, the actress, was found strangled in an artist's studio. The studio was vandalized exactly as was Sarah Channing's," he said.

  Hart was at attention now. "You do not pull any punches," he said, stunned. "But Grace was Evan's mistress!" And his mind raced. First an assault upon Sarah's studio and now this, the murder of Grace Conway. And Evan Cahill was the single man involved with them both.

  "You knew Miss Conway?" Bragg asked sharply.

  "Yes, I do—I did. In fact, two years ago we had an affair. She was a wonderful woman," Hart said grimly, the fact of her death just sinking in. But he was also thinking about Francesca. How could he help her brother now? For surely he was, somehow, involved. "I don't like this," he said abruptly. "How is Evan Cahill involved?"

  "We don't know. Do you know of an artist named Melinda Neville? A Miss Melinda Neville?"

  "No, I have never heard the name."

  "Miss Conway was in her studio when she was murdered. The two women were neighbors," Bragg said. "And now, Miss Neville seems to have disappeared."

  "I can find out if anyone is handling her work," Hart said. "Shall I ask around the various galleries which I frequent?"

  "I would appreciate it. We are concerned that Miss Neville may have been the killer's target."

  "How is Francesca taking this?"

  Bragg looked him in the eye. "She is managing very well. We both wish to keep the fact that Miss Conway was Evan's mistress out of the news journals."

  "A good idea," Hart said.

  The waiter approached. "Would you gentlemen like to order?"

  "A moment, please," Bragg said. The waiter left. "Any idea why someone would start violating various art studios? Ones belonging to young women?"

  "No. But I shall certainly think about it."

  "Any odd characters in the art world these days?"

  Hart grinned. "Most of its denizens are odd, Rick."

  Rick accepted that, and he began to spin his menu around with his fingertips. Hart felt the moment that his brother's thoughts veered from the criminal investigation. A set expression closed his face. It was an expression Hart had seen many times, four years ago, when Leigh Anne had run off to Europe.

  He finally sighed. As much as he disliked his brother, they did share a drop or two of blood. "Care for some advice?"

  "From you? If this is about my personal life, I don't think so."

  He leaned forward. "Get her out of your system once and for all. Fuck her brains out. And send her away. If you wish, I shall give you a tidy sum with which to pay her off. A single large one-time payment and the two of you are done." He was disappointed with himself for being so benevolent with his impossibly virtuous brother. He would much prefer to gloat over the impasse Rick now found himself in. Nor did he really wish for Bragg to be running about the city with no wife in sight. Still, should that day come, it did not change the fact of his marriage. Leigh Anne would never give him a divorce and Francesca was too hot-blooded to wait for years and years for her supposed knight in shining armor.

  Bragg leaned back in his chair, his amber gaze unwavering. "I seem to recall that you do not give a damn about my life, so why the sudden advice to sleep with my wife, and why the hell the offer to loan me enough money to pay her off?"

  Hart hesitated. "Even you do not deserve the pain of such a viper."

  "Really? I think there is more to your offer than meets the eye, Calder; I am just not sure what is really on your mind." He leaned forward, tension knotting his neck and shoulders. "Let me guess why you are so generous with your advice. If I follow it, you shall be free to pursue and seduce Francesca yourself and then, should I send Leigh Anne away, I will be deeply, impossibly in your debt!" He stared, grimacing. "You are the last person I wish to owe my life to. I would never be able to pay you back; therefore, my answer is no, thank you."

  "I shall do as I choose with Francesca whether you are screwing Leigh Anne or not. And you are a fool," Hart said coldly. "Why this city thinks so highly of you I shall never know. But know this—I am not making such an offer again."

  "That is fine with me. As I have no intention of ever being a puppet on your strings," Bragg said calmly.

  Hart was furious with himself now. And he felt like a small boy who had offered a
cookie to his dog, only to have his hand bitten. "How melodramatic. Here's a thought—by refusing my offer you will become reconciled with Leigh Anne and led around by your nose hairs for the rest of your life. You shall be a puppet on her strings!"

  "Funny how you did not deny your intent to seduce Francesca," Bragg returned coldly.

  "If I denied it, would you believe me?" He decided he had had enough. Besides, he wasn't hungry, anyway.

  "No."

  They stared at each other. "I will kill you if you hurt her," Bragg said. "She is not for you. Stick to Daisy and the likes of her, Hart," he warned.

  Hart grinned. "I was thinking the same thing. I will kill you if you hurt her. Oh, wait! It's too late. You have already hurt her, haven't you?"

  Bragg started. "This simply amazes me, that you think you could ever be her hero!" Bragg leaned forward, lowering his voice. "It is me whom she loves. Not you. She could never love a blackguard. You may wish to protect her from me, but she needs protecting from you. I am getting a divorce, Hart. And while I would never ask Francesca to wait for me, if she is free when I become free, I am marrying her," he said flatly.

  Hart stared. The room had become still and silent around him. His heart felt as if it had stopped. And was that icy fear he had just felt coiling around his guts? "No," he said slowly, harshly. "You are not."

  "I doubt you can predict the future, or have you become psychic?" Bragg mocked.

  "But I can predict the future," Hart said, standing and tossing his linen napkin down. "You see, by the time you obtain your divorce, Francesca will no longer be free."

  Bragg also stood. "What does that mean?"

  "It means she will be married to me," he said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thursday, February 20, 1902—3:00 p.m.

  Francesca and Joel smiled at the officer standing outside Melinda Neville's apartment. He instantly moved to bar their way. "Miss Neville?" he asked quickly.

  Francesca continued to smile at him, handing him her calling card. "No, I am afraid I am not Miss Neville," she said with false cheer. She felt terrible for Bertrand Hoeltz, who had not seen Melinda since Monday morning when they had taken a petit dejeuner together. Apparently Melinda had met Hoeltz in Paris, about a year ago, where their affair had begun. He was a frequent traveler to Europe, as it turned out. He had begged her to return to New York, and eventually, the long-distance nature of their affair too taxing, she had agreed.

  Melinda Neville kept her own flat at Number 202 10th Street but spent a good deal of her time with Hoeltz, who had his own apartment behind the art gallery he owned. They had spent Sunday evening together, dined lightly the following morning, with Melinda departing to go to her studio and work. He had not seen her since. He was frantic.

  The roses that had been lying upon the floor not far from Miss Conway's body had been haunting Francesca since she had first seen the murder victim Tuesday. They had not been given to Melinda Neville by her lover. "I feel certain they were a gift meant for Miss Conway," he had said tearfully. "This is not like Melinda. She would never disappear for three days without telling me where she was going and why. I fear something terrible has happened to her," he said, trembling.

  Francesca had laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "Do you know another artist, Sarah Charming?" she had asked.

  He had shaken his head no.

  Now Francesca faced the young policeman guarding the door to Flat Number Seven. "Miss Cahill," the wardsman said, his eyes now as round as his blushing face. "You may go in, ma'am."

  Francesca thanked him, allowed him to open the door for her, and preceded Joel inside. As she turned on a lamp, Joel said, "You think Hoeltz went and stiffed her?"

  Francesca looked at him fondly. "We have simply no reason to believe such a thing, Joel." Of course, she had had to wonder the very same thing. But that was the problem of having a list of credible suspects that consisted of one— Andrew LeFarge.

  "Maybe someone else gave her them roses. Maybe he was jealous and he seen red. Ye know, like in the theater."

  She blinked at him with respect. "That is an admirable theory. We shall get to the bottom of this, Joel. Let us continue to hope that Miss Neville is unharmed." But Francesca did not believe it. She had a terrible feeling that the missing woman was dead.

  Francesca now studied the all too familiar and gruesome room. A depiction of Miss Conway's body as she had been found was outlined in chalk upon the floor. The roses that had been scattered there were gone, gathered up, Francesca thought, as evidence. Francesca turned and gazed at the black letter B painted on the vandalized wall. Did B stand for Bragg? Did it stand for Bartolla Benevente, whose portrait had been mutilated by the vandal at Sarah Channing's studio? Or perhaps it stood for something or someone with which or whom she was not familiar yet.

  "Nuthin' new here," Joel announced. "Don't know what you expected to find." He shifted impatiently from foot to foot, shivering.

  "Probably nothing," Francesca said distractedly. She went over to the chalk outline of Miss Conway's body and paused. Had she already found a new admirer? It seemed likely, given her popularity. Was one of her ardent admirers a murderous madman?

  Or had her murder been accidental?

  They so needed a solid clue. Francesca thought about the connection between Melinda Neville and Sarah Channing— art. It wasn't even Bertrand Hoeltz. She thought about the connection between Grace Conway and Melinda Neville— it had been this building. The connection between Grace and Sarah had been her brother. She was at a loss.

  And Sarah was alive. Grace Conway was not, and in all likelihood, neither was Melinda Neville.

  Francesca paced the room, certain she was missing something and unable to determine what that something was. Finally she sat down on the sofa, having given up. There was something that she had seen or something that her mind wanted to tell her, but it simply wasn't coming to her now.

  "Mebbe I had better git home an' see if my mom needs something?" Joel asked.

  Francesca realized that it was getting late. She hurried to him. "I think you should go home," she said, patting his back. "I think we have done enough sleuthing for today. I have an errand to perform soon, anyway." And as she spoke, her heart lurched unpleasantly. She had delayed and procrastinated until there was simply not another excuse she could make. Evan was improving daily, and soon he would be up and about. She had to ask Hart for that loan so that Evan could pay back some of his debts.

  "You sure it's OK?" Joel asked with open worry.

  "I'm sure." Francesca smiled at him.

  They left the apartment, pausing to thank the young officer for letting them in. Outside, Francesca halted on the sidewalk in front of the building, more disturbed than ever. She was missing something.

  And it was right there, in front of her face; she felt certain of it.

  She recalled the scene on the street two days ago when she and Joel had first arrived there. The policemen in their uniforms, the empty police wagon, the Daimler, the Mug-heads. And then her gaze flew back to a stoop not far from the one she and Joel had just left.

  There had been a gray-haired woman sitting there in rags, swilling her beer from a bucket. Talking madly to herself and jeering at everyone. A madwoman, a vagrant, a drunk. Just how long had she been sitting there?

  Her excitement rising, Francesca reminded herself that Grace Conway had been murdered sometime on Monday, not on Tuesday night. But she could not tamp down her enthusiasm now.

  She had helped feed the homeless and the poor too many Sundays to count. And the one thing she knew from her active social duties was that vagrants frequented the same locations, time and again. A city corner might be considered to be home to one, a building's stoop home to another.

  "Joel, we must find that vagrant woman—the one who was loitering on the adjacent stoop on Tuesday night." She was breathless now. It was a long shot—or was it? "I am returning here after dark," she said.

  And he looked at her as if she w
ere the crazy one.

  Thursday, February 20, 1902—5:00 p.m.

  Calder Hart's offices were in a fine brick building on Front Street, with views of the wharves and the ships there, the bay, and the Statue of Liberty. Francesca could not appreciate his location now. She had been putting off her visit to Calder Hart long enough. She dreaded facing him after their last encounter, and even more, she dreaded begging him for a loan.

  In fact, there was more than dread in her heart; there was fear. She kept telling herself that there was simply no reason for her to be afraid of a man who was such a good friend. She simply had to get that loan for Evan's sake, even if it meant spending the rest of her life paying Hart back, penny by copper penny.

  Joel now gazed up at the brick building with wide eyes as several drays drawn by draft horses went by. A huge sign was hanging just below the temple pediment of its roof, and it read quite simply: hart industries. When Joel had learned that she was calling upon Hart, he had told her he would accompany her, as the wharf was simply too rough a place for a fine lady like herself. "How rich do you think he really is?" Joel asked breathlessly.

  "I have no idea," Francesca said tersely. She reminded herself to remain calm and composed. It did not help. And looking at Joel, she wondered if the real reason he had accompanied her downtown was the ruffians lingering about the wharf or a fascination of his own for Calder Hart.

  "How'd a man who was a boy like me get so rich?" Joel asked as they entered the building—and that quite answered her question.

  "You might wish to ask him that, sometime."

  "He'd never tell me," Joel muttered, his cheeks turning red.

  "Calder is actually a kind man," Francesca whispered nervously as they passed through the lobby. It was wood-paneled, with gleaming wood floors. She knew the building was a recently constructed one, but it looked as if it had been around for decades. Several multicolored, mostly red Persian rugs covered the floors. Works of art hung on the walls. There was a pleasant sitting area. A larger than life-size sculpture of a Roman soldier on a brawny horse dominated the room.