Deadly Caress

by Brenda Joyce

  "Hoeltz," he gasped. "Hoeltz hated Mellie with all of his being."

  "What?" Francesca straightened. This was clearly an outright lie.

  Tears filled Neville's eyes. He shook. "She went to him last Sunday night to tell him she was leaving him," he whispered. "And I could tell how afraid she was."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, February 21, 1902—11:00 a.m.

  Bartolla Benevente hurried through the Channing residence and into the salon commonly used for entertaining callers. She had just spent fifteen minutes ironing her hair and reapplying rouge to her cheeks and lips. Clad in a very fitted burgundy jacket, the matching skirt trimmed in dyed fox, a ruby necklace, and matching ear bobs, she felt she looked radiant and her best. The salon doors were wide open She paused on the threshold for a dramatic effect. It never crossed her mind that she had made her caller wait. Leigh Anne Bragg had been sitting on a plush velvet sofa, and when she saw Bartolla she smiled and rose gracefully to her feet. The two women had met several years ago in Rome, when Bartolla's husband had been alive and they had been on their way to their Tuscan villa. Bartolla beamed in return, swept across the room, and the two women embraced. Unfortunately, Leigh Anne was as lovely as she had been the other day when they had last seen each other. Fortunately, Bartolla was too secure to be envious; it was merely annoying.

  "How pretty you look!" Bartolla cried, still smiling. And she knew pretty was not a word that did justice to Leigh Anne. She knew the word would grate on the tiny woman's nerves.

  But if Leigh Anne felt insulted, she did not show it. "And you are so beautiful today," Leigh Anne replied earnestly in her soft, breathless voice. "I love your suit, Bartolla. Please don't tell me it was sewn in Italy? I should so love to use your seamstress."

  "I'm afraid it was," Bartolla lied. The ensemble had belonged to one of her dear departed husband's sisters, who had given it, and many others, to Bartolla when she realized she was too fat to ever wear them again. Bartolla had had them all altered to fit her perfectly. She had saved a fortune yet acquired a couturier wardrobe. And she did not have a seamstress, because her dear departed husband had left her poor and penniless. However, Leigh Anne could not know that.

  It was her secret.

  The two women sat, arranging their skirts, as the butler wheeled in a tray with tea and cakes. Both women helped themselves to plates of petits fours, which they had no intention of ever eating. "So tell me, Leigh Anne, is New York City agreeing with you?" Bartolla asked with avid curiosity. She was simply dying to know what was happening in the Bragg-Leigh Anne-Francesca love triangle. It was too delicious for words.

  Leigh Anne beamed. A pretty flush covered her cheeks, and her emerald-colored eyes sparkled. "I do think so. My husband and I reconciled last night."

  Bartolla almost dropped her cup and saucer. As it was, she spilled tea upon her lap.

  Leigh Anne cried out, handing her a gold linen napkin, "Oh, I don't think it will stain!"

  Bartolla wiped the spot, using the moment to recover from her surprise. "That is wonderful news! I am so happy for you!" She hesitated. "Have you met Francesca Cahill, dear?"

  Leigh Anne's smile faded. "Yes, I did." She reached out and clasped Bartolla's hands in hers. "I cannot tell you how I appreciate your letter warning me about her. Had I not come to New York, God only knows what might have happened."

  Bartolla's smile felt brittle. Yet she had deliberately stirred up the hornets' nest, never mind that she was genuinely fond of Francesca and did not really like Leigh Anne Bragg at all. But then, Francesca was not a rival. Francesca would never be a rival, and not because she wasn't beautiful, which she was. But her attention was on politics, charities, and criminal investigations. Except for Bragg—and maybe Hart—she had no interest in men.

  Leigh Anne was a very dangerous rival indeed. She was too beautiful, too poised, too elegant, and Bartolla knew she could seduce any man she wished. Fortunately, Leigh Anne's interest now was her successful and handsome husband.

  Bartolla hadn't been able to resist sending Leigh Anne a warning note. The idea of Leigh Anne returning to New York to rescue her husband before he fell into Francesca's clutches had been too entertaining. And now, Bartolla could not wait to be entertained.

  "Darling, you are one of my best friends!" Bartolla exclaimed. "As much as I adore Francesca—and you know that I do—I simply had to let you know what was happening here in the city before everyone's curious eyes."

  Leigh Anne smiled gratefully and sipped her tea.

  Which annoyed Bartolla even more. "Have the two of you met yet?"

  Leigh Anne set her cup down. Then, shocking Bartolla, she picked up a petit four and nibbled briefly on it. "I called on her a few days ago. I am afraid you were right." She was rueful. "She is extraordinary. At once beautiful, clever, and kind—not to mention a sleuth. It is so understandable that Rick would have feelings for such a woman—considering we have been apart for four very long years."

  In a gesture of sympathy that she did not feel, Bartolla reached out and touched Leigh Anne's small, silken hand, thinking, Well done! "Yes, she is extraordinary. There is never a dull moment around Francesca," Bartolla said, yearning to know what had happened when Francesca and Leigh Anne met. "Perhaps the day will come when you, too, shall become her friend?"

  Leigh Anne smiled. "That would be very nice."

  Determined to provoke a measure of the truth from her, Bartolla prodded, "Francesca is very interesting company indeed. Perhaps the three of us should take lunch one day this week?"

  Leigh Anne surprised her, proving that she was a very worthy adversary. "If you care to arrange it, I will certainly attend. Perhaps you should invite your cousin, whom I have yet to meet?"

  Bartolla made an airy submissive gesture. "Sarah is always in her studio, painting. It is almost impossible to distract her from her art, but if you wish it, I will try." And as she spoke, she thought about Evan Cahill and her heart leaped.

  He was so badly hurt, but he would recover, thank God. She would visit him later that day—and every afternoon while he was bedridden. She missed the time they had been spending together. Yet she needed far more than his companionship and gallantry, as she was a hot-blooded woman and he was a simply stunning young man. She knew he would be a superb lover, at once experienced and generous. She knew he would worship every inch of her lush body. Still, her plans required patience.

  First he must break his engagement to Sarah, which Bartolla knew he had intended to do before he'd been in that absurd brawl. And until recently she had intended to engage in every possible sexual act with him except for an actual consummation. She had planned to withhold her ultimate favors, to tease and torment him until he dropped down on his knees and begged her to marry him. But she was growing impatient—-and scared.

  The way he had been looking at the haggard and dowdy seamstress the other day had really frightened her, no matter how often she told herself that mere simply could not be any competition between them. Not for Evan Cahill.

  But she could not talk herself out of her worries, and abruptly her plans had changed.

  She must speed up the inevitable now.

  And she must claim to be pregnant as soon as was possible.

  They had finally calmed Thomas Neville down and had asked him several other questions. By the time they had handed him back to Captain Shea in order for him to take Neville's report, Francesca couldn't help wondering if he was their man. She and Bragg watched him, seated behind a desk, Shea now interviewing him for the official missing person report. "What do you think?"

  Bragg glanced at her. "Don't leap to conclusions, Francesca."

  "He clearly loves his sister. But he is odd. There is something about him that bothers me," she said reflectively.

  "I think we should look into Hoeltz's alibi," Bragg said. "If Miss Neville ended their affair, I doubt she spent Sunday night with him, which means he lied to us. And that gives him motivation."

  "Motivation to
murder Miss Conway?" Francesca was skeptical.

  "Motivation to vandalize his lover's studio in a fit of rage and or despair, and then take out his fury on Miss Conway, an innocent passerby."

  "And that still leaves us with the very significant and unanswered question of where is Miss Neville—and what has happened to her? If your theory is correct, she may be hiding from her very own lover," Francesca said.

  Before he could reply, Inspector Newman came barreling through the two front doors of headquarters, huffing and puffing as he did so. He saw them instantly, veered in their direction, and halted before them, gasping for air.

  "Slow down," Bragg said, clasping his shoulder. "I take it you have found something?"

  Newman nodded, wheezing and incapable of speech. Hickey entered the lobby now, a tall, lean man with red hair going gray. He strolled over. "Miss Holmes has been murdered," he said.

  "What?!" Francesca said, in shock.

  Bragg guided Newman to a bench. "When did this happen?"

  Newman breathed. "Her mother found her this morning, sir. Found her lying on the floor in her bedroom, strangled to death."

  "Let's go," Bragg said.

  Francesca paused in the narrow doorway of the room that had belonged, until sometime last night, to Catherine Holmes. Instantly her gaze slammed onto Catherine's lifeless form. She lay several feet from her narrow bed in her simple cotton nightgown, beside an unornamented wall. She did not lie near the doorway where Francesca stood. As Mrs. Holmes was on the couch in the parlor, sobbing in hysterics, the scene was a terrible one.

  Francesca also wanted to cry.

  Francesca had met Miss Conway once, and briefly. She had not met Miss Neville. Now she felt paralyzed with grief.

  She felt Bragg appear at her side. Not looking at him, she said solemnly, "She lied to us about the window. I am certain she would sit there and yearn for another life, a life outside this dismal, damp apartment. She saw the killer, Bragg. And he came back for her."

  Bragg touched her arm. "That is one theory, and it may be the right one." He walked over to Catherine's body and knelt down. "Her throat is turning black-and-blue," he said.

  Francesca looked away. She took one last glance at the sparsely furnished bedroom. The comforter was blue and worn, and one lacy white pillow had been used to decorate the bed. The side table was pine and poorly constructed. There was one lamp in the room upon it, as was a mug of water. A Bible was there, as well.

  Several items of clothing hung on the wall pegs. Francesca turned to the broken-down armoire and opened it. She found more clothing, a pair of shoes, undergarments, and one pretty shell hair comb. She felt more saddened than before.

  Miss Neville's flat had been rather unadorned, but not like this, not so starkly, so depressingly. And Miss Neville had had her art.

  Francesca hoped that she was alive.

  Francesca left the bedroom and was joined by Bragg in the parlor. "The door was bolted from the inside every night, and Mrs. Holmes says it was bolted when she ran into the street to shout for help this morning."

  On the couch, Mrs. Holmes continued to alternately gasp for air and sob.

  "I want to get this madman, Bragg," Francesca said grimly. "Before he strikes again."

  "I do, too," he returned. He pointed at the window where Catherine Holmes's rocking chair sat, glaringly empty now. Francesca saw that the window had been smashed and it was wide open. "He entered and left this way."

  "Why not go out the front door?"

  "Perhaps he did not want to be seen in the hallway a second time," Bragg said.

  "Is there any connection between Catherine Holmes and the art world?" she asked, wanting to add, Or my brother? But she did not.

  "No."

  Suddenly the chief of police came striding into the room. As he was so leonine and charismatic, he dominated the small parlor. "Commissioner, sir. Miss Cahill. I see our strangler has been at it again."

  As Francesca did not like Brendan Farr—he had made it clear he did not like her involvement in police affairs, and she found him threatening—she merely smiled and walked about the room, looking for more clues.

  "Either our killer is a madman who has become fond of this building or Miss Holmes saw something she should not have seen," Bragg said. He gestured to the bedroom.

  Farr went in, followed by a young officer. He also knelt beside the body, visually inspecting her without touching her. Newman and Hickey were now finishing their search of the parlor. They turned their efforts to the bedroom.

  Francesca walked over to Mrs. Holmes, wishing Fair were not involving himself in the case. She sat down beside her. "I am so sorry. Has a doctor been called?"

  Mrs. Holmes nodded, her face impossibly haggard now. "She was such an angel," she choked. "She was my angel of mercy! How could anyone do this?"

  "We intend to find out," Francesca said grimly. Impulsively she took the woman's hands. "Did Miss Holmes know Grace Conway? Were they friends?"

  "Absolutely not! Miss Conway was an actress, young lady, and my daughter is genteel."

  "Did she know or had she ever met either Bertrand Hoeltz, Miss Neville's friend, or Thomas Neville, her brother?" Francesca stiffened, as Farr had come to stand behind her.

  "She was friendly with Miss Neville, as was I. Of course we knew her brother. As for Mr. Hoeltz"—Mrs. Holmes was grim—"I told her to never even look at him should she pass him in the hallway. I told her he was dangerous."

  "Did Mr. Hoeltz frequent this building? Did he visit Miss Neville here?" Francesca asked, surprised.

  "Yes, he did. And he always had red roses in his arms, red roses and a bottle of French wine!" Tears returned to her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and cried again.

  "Did Miss Holmes know Evan Cahill, Mrs. Holmes?" Farr asked.

  Francesca stiffened, and slowly she turned to look up at him.

  He stared at her, his gray eyes fathomless. "It is the one question you did not ask."

  Mrs. Holmes dropped her hands. "That friend of Miss Conway? Absolutely not! He is as bad as Hoeltz, or even worse! Always smiling at the good girls like my Catherine. I told her not to ever smile back at him!"

  "Francesca?" Bragg called quietly from the bedroom.

  Francesca leaped to her feet and hurried over. Bragg was holding the Bible in his hand. "What is it?" she asked, not liking his odd expression. She had an inkling of dread.

  He was so grim. He opened the Bible and Francesca realized that it was a journal, not a Bible after all. The cover of the Bible had been removed from the Good Book and attached to the journal, clearly disguising what the contents were. He had it opened randomly, and he handed it to her.

  Francesca glanced at the date—it was almost a year ago—and read:

  He came calling on Grace Conway again, and we passed in the hall. Of course, I was expecting him, as he always comes for her in the early evenings to take her out. Tonight he wore a pink carnation in his lapel. And this time, when he smiled at me, I managed to say hello! He actually said hello to me, too, then introduced himself. His name is Evan Cahill. Oh, how elegant it sounds, and how it suits him! I dared to introduce myself, and after that, he wished me a pleasant evening.

  Francesca's dread became full-blown. She skipped the rest of the page, turning to another one:

  I heard them all night. I heard him making love to her, I heard her crying his name. Afterward, I heard him telling her how much he loves her. These walls are so thin! And later, when it was quiet upstairs, I

  could not sleep. In my mind I keep seeing Evan Cahill making love to Miss Conway, but eventually, she becomes me. Oh, God. I am so in love.

  Francesca snapped the book closed, aghast.

  Fan towered in the doorway. "So she kept a journal," he said flatly.

  Francesca turned away from him, trembling. Her brother was now the link between Sarah Channing and both dead women.

  "Are you all right?" Bragg took her hand and held it tightly.

  "Th
at journal doesn't mean anything," Francesca said as they sat in his Daimler outside the brownstone that housed Gallery Hoeltz.

  "It means that she was infatuated with your brother. We will need to hear his side of this, Francesca."

  "If only Fair hadn't shown up!" she cried passionately. He was trouble and she simply knew it. "He dislikes me so!"

  To her surprise, Bragg did not disagree or try to reassure her. He got out of the motorcar and came around to open her door. He said, "I think you should stay away from police headquarters for a while, Francesca. Keep a low profile, if you understand my meaning. Continue to investigate, but with discretion."

  She nodded. "I happen to agree with you," she said.

  They left the roadster and soon Bertrand Hoeltz was ushering them upstairs into the art gallery. He looked terrible— as if he had aged a decade in a day. After seating them in his small office and offering them espresso, he said, "Please tell me that you have good news. Please tell me you have found Melinda!"

  "I am afraid we have no news," Bragg said. "We continue to work on it."

  "We need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Hoeltz," Francesca said softly.

  He groaned and covered his face with his hands, then nodded grimly at them. He seemed genuinely distraught over his mistress's continuing disappearance.

  "Mr. Hoeltz," Francesca said softly—nonthreateningly. "Did Miss Neville decide to end your affair?"

  He straightened as if shot. His eyes were wide, shocked. "What?"

  Francesca repeated the question.

  He rubbed his face. "No, she did not, and I do not know where you heard such a lie," he said hoarsely. He met her eyes. "We were more than paramours, Miss Cahill. We were in love."

  Francesca smiled tightly. "I am sure you were," she said, alarm bells now ringing within her mind. He was lying. He had not been able to look her in the eye when he had denied the breakup of his affair.