by Brenda Joyce
His smile had vanished. "Francesca?" His tone was somewhat rough. As if he knew what she was thinking.
She realized she had been smiling dreamily and bit her lip. Neither one moved, their gaze holding. Did he suspect the depth of her feelings? In the past few weeks, she had become a woman, one aware now of the meaning of desire and the difference between desire and need. She wanted him physically, as a lover, but even more, she needed him as a friend, but as a man.
Of course, they would never be lovers. And she would never be able to think of him merely as a friend, either.
He turned and gazed down at his desk, fiddling with a folder. The silence felt heavy now and fraught with tension and maybe danger. This was getting harder, she realized, not easier. Perhaps calling like this had been a terrible idea. But if she had not, they would not have this wager—which she intended to win. Would it ever become easy, seeing him, loving him, and being mere friends? Suddenly she was afraid; suddenly she had an inkling, one she hated and feared. For she did not think so.
"So," he said tersely, glancing sidelong at her. "As much as I enjoy your company, I must get back to work."
In a way, she was relieved by the change of topic. On the other hand, the glint in his eyes excited her no end. "And I must go home and continue studying," she agreed, her voice unusually hoarse.
He walked briskly over to her coat, removing it from the wall peg. Francesca let him help her on with it, aware of his hands upon her as he did so. Their eyes met and they moved apart. He walked her to the door and there they paused, without his opening it.
She could not help herself. She thought about their conversation on the steps of the Plaza Hotel, just before the newsmen had surrounded her. "Do you regret what you said the other day?" she asked softly.
He hesitated. "No."
Her reaction was instantaneous; she was inwardly thrilled. But she kept her expression as passive as possible. "Nor do I, Bragg," she said softly.
He nodded gruffly at her; she left.
* * *
"You have a caller, Francesca."
Francesca halted at the sound of her mother's voice, having just handed off her coat, hat, muff, and gloves to a servant. She slowly turned, with dread.
For her mother's voice had been sharp. Now disapproval covered Julia's attractive face. She was an older image of both of her daughters: blond, blue-eyed, with classic and fine features. Although over forty, she remained slim and glamorous; many men her own age often eyed her in a covert manner.
"Good day, Mama," Francesca said nervously. Julia had seen the Sun. Francesca would wager her life on it.
Julia Van Wyck Cahill was magnificently attired, clearly dressed for an early-evening affair. Her sapphire blue gown revealed a slim and pleasing figure, while two tiers of sapphires adorned her neck. Before she could answer, Andrew appeared on the stairs, in a white dinner jacket and satin-trimmed black trousers. He took one look at Francesca and his expression became pinched, with disbelief and accusations warring in his eyes.
"I can explain," Francesca whispered.
"What can you explain?" Andrew demanded, halting beside his wife. "That you have made the front page of the Sun? That you once again immersed yourself in a dangerous affair? One belonging, I believe, to the police?"
Francesca inhaled. How to begin? Before she could speak, her mother interrupted.
"I am aghast. I am aghast that my daughter would confront a killer and place herself in unspeakable danger. This shall not continue, Francesca. You have gone too far." Julia turned and nodded at a servant, who was holding her magnificent sable coat for her. She allowed him to slip it over her shoulders.
"I am beginning to wonder if my brilliant daughter has truly lost her mind," Andrew said.
Francesca cringed. Papa never spoke to her in such a manner. "I helped the police enormously," Francesca murmured. The fact was, she had solved the case at the eleventh hour.
"You have been up to your ears in police affairs ever since Bragg arrived in town," Julia said sharply. "Do you think I am blind, Francesca? I can see what is happening."
"Nothing is happening," Francesca tried, stealing a glance at her father. He knew about Bragg's married state, she thought suddenly. This was the secret he had been keeping. But why hadn't he told her?
"We are on our way out for the evening, but we shall speak tomorrow morning, Francesca." Julia gave her a look that was filled with warning. Julia did not look at her again as Andrew donned his coat. But her father met her gaze, shaking his head, looking so terribly grim that Francesca knew she was in the kind of trouble she had never dreamed of. There was no relief when they stepped out of the house. But what could they do? She was a grown woman.
Francesca relaxed slightly. She would worry about her parents tomorrow. She turned as Bette handed her a delicately engraved calling card on a small sterling tray. Francesca studied the card for a moment curiously. She did not believe she had ever met a Mrs. Lincoln Stuart, and she thanked Bette and entered the far salon.
It was beautifully appointed but small, and used for more intimate gatherings, such as a meeting with a single caller. It was painted a pale, dusky yellow, and most of the furnishings were in various shades of yellow or gold, with several red and navy blue accents. The moment Francesca entered the room, she saw Mrs. Lincoln Stuart. She had been sitting on a sofa at the room's other end, but upon espying Francesca, she instantly stood. Francesca smiled and approached.
Mrs. Lincoln Stuart twisted her hands.
Francesca saw that Mrs. Stuart was a few years older than her. She was rather plain in appearance, her features usual and unsurprising. But her hair was a beautiful cascade of chestnut curls, and it was what one noticed first. She was very well dressed, in a green floral suit and skirt, and she wore a rather large yellow diamond ring. Her husband was obviously wealthy. And she was nervous and distressed.
"Miss Cahill. I do hope you do not mind me calling like this," Mrs. Lincoln Stuart said in a husky voice, one filled with tension. Worry was expressed in her eyes.
Francesca smiled warmly, pausing before her. "Of course not," she said politely. "Have we met?"
"No, we have not, but I was given this by a boy the other day." And Mrs. Stuart handed her a card.
Francesca recognized it instantly—how could she not? Tiffany's had printed the cards at her request upon the conclusion of the Burton Affair. It read:
Francesca Cahill
Crime-Solver Extraordinaire
No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City.
All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small.
"My assistant, Joel Kennedy, must have handed this to you," Francesca mused, pleased. She had recently assigned him the task of drumming up business for her. She glanced up at Mrs. Stuart. Was she a prospective client? France-sea's heart thudded in anticipation.
"I don't know the boy's name; I only know that I am frightened and I have no one to turn to!" Mrs. Stuart cried, her eyes wide. Francesca saw that they were green and lovely. Mrs. Stuart was the sort of woman who had a quiet kind of beauty, one that was not instantly remarkable, she decided.
Francesca also realized that she was on the verge of tears. She took the woman's arm. "Do sit down, and I am sure I can help you, Mrs. Stuart," she said. "No matter what your problem might be." There was no doubt now— Mrs. Stuart had come to her for help—this would be her second official case!
The woman dug a handkerchief out of her velvet purse. It was hunter green, like the trim on her elegant tea gown. "Please, call me Lydia," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "I saw today's article in the Sun, Miss Cahill. You are a heroine, a brave heroine, and when I realized that you were the same woman on this card, I knew it was you to whom I must turn."
"I am hardly a heroine, Lydia," Francesca said, barely containing her excitement. "Excuse me." She rushed to the salon door and closed it, so that no one might overhear the conversation. Her resolve to take a 'sabbatical' from sleuthing had vanished. In fact, she forgot all about her stu
dies now. She hurried back to her guest—her client— and sat down. What could this woman's problem be? And was she truly going to have, for the very first time, a paying client? In the past, she had offered her services for free. A paying client would truly make her a professional woman.
Lydia managed to smile at her and now handed her a small piece of paper, upon which were a name, Rebecca Hopper, and an address, 40 East 30th Street. "What is this?" Francesca asked.
Lydia Stuart's face changed, becoming filled with distaste. "Mrs. Hopper is a widow, and that is where she lives. I believe my husband is having an affair with her, but I want to know the truth."
Francesca stared.
"And I have no doubt that he will be there tonight, as he has said he is working late and he will not be home for supper," Lydia added.
* * *
Mrs. Hopper's residence was a corner one, and while all of the lights were on downstairs, only one bedroom upstairs was illuminated. It had been years since Francesca had climbed a tree, and now she was sorry that she had not gone farther downtown to locate Joel to do her evening's work for her. He would have been very useful indeed—especially as he did not have cumbersome skirts to deal with.
Huffing and puffing, her hands freezing, as she had stripped off her gloves, she sought another foothold in the huge tree she was climbing, clinging to the trunk.
She had decided to tackle Lydia's case head-on. It was 9:00 P.M., and a quick look at the house had shown Francesca that if she climbed the big tree in the yard, she might very well be able to locate and spy upon the lovers directly. In fact, if Lydia was right, this case might be solved before it was even begun.
Francesca made it to the large, higher branch. She clung to it, one leg atop it, both arms around it. Her skirts were in the way, but she had not had the foresight to wear men's clothing, for she had not had the psychic ability to know she would be climbing trees this night. With great effort, she somehow moved her other leg onto the thick branch, and then she hugged it with all of her might, afraid she was going to fall. She glanced down.
She was not sure she liked heights. When she had been upon the ground, in the yard, the tree had not seemed so tall. Now, as she looked down, her cheek upon the rough bark, her hands feeling rather scraped and raw, the ground seemed very far away.
She had not a doubt that if she fell, the snow would be rock-hard, as it was solidly frozen. It would not break her fall; she might wind up with a broken arm or, God forbid, a broken neck.
But she was determined to ignore her cowardice now. Very, very carefully, Francesca sat up. When she was astride the branch as if it were a horse, she began to breathe easier. This wasn't too bad. She believed she could manage.
Dismayed, she suddenly realized her eyes were still below the window and she could not see into the bedroom in order to learn what was going on. She would have to stand up.
But Francesca realized she was turned around the wrong way—the trunk of the tree was behind her. Oh, dear. This might be far too dangerous a maneuver, she thought.
She could not see into the bedroom and she was at a grave risk if she tried to turn around. Now what?
There was no choice. She had to turn herself around. She simply had to. Because Lydia Stuart was her first paying client.
Francesca lifted her right leg up slowly until she was able to move it up and over the branch. Now she sat with both legs dangling off of the same side of the tree, and her position was precarious at best. She failed to breathe now. She had to reverse herself, but she was afraid to move.
That was when she slipped.
Francesca cried out as she lost her balance and started to slide off the branch; instantly, desperately, she reached out, trying to grasp the branch with her hands, the bark scraping and abrading her palms, and for one moment she thought she had succeeded in stopping herself. She gripped the tree, but then her hands failed her and suddenly she was falling through space.
She saw the white snow below, racing toward her face, and she thought, Oh, dear, this is it. It is all over now.
Whomp.
Francesca landed hard on her shoulder and her side, not her face, her head smacking down last. And then she was spitting out snow.
God, she thought, dazed. Was she intact? Had she broken anything?
She began to move. The snow was not as frozen as she had thought it would be; it was not rock-hard, surprisingly. She wiggled her toes and fingers in the snow, moved her hands and legs.
She froze.
Had she just touched something? Something beneath the snow? Something sticky! And solid!?
Francesca sat up shakily, and as she stood, she looked down at her own hands.
One was pale and white in the moonlight; the other was dark and splotched in places.
She had an inkling. She did not move. She recognized those splotches.
Her heart pounded.
She rubbed her fingers together. Oh, no.
Francesca was on her knees, tearing at the frozen snow. As she moved the top layer away, she found a piece of garment. She stared at a patch of brown wool, and the dark, still not thoroughly frozen, stain on it.
She touched the fresh blood; someone had been recently buried in the snow. Maybe the person was still alive!
Francesca pawed the snow frantically, shoving it away in clumps, until she saw the woman's face. The open, sightless blue eyes were glazed in terror. They were also strangely familiar. Then she saw the woman's throat.
Francesca stood, and, unable to help herself, screamed. For carved in the once pristine-white skin was a perfect, bloody cross. But Francesca screamed because she recognized the dead woman, dear God.
It was the woman who had almost approached her at the Plaza Hotel two days ago; it was the woman who had fled in terror instead.
TWO
Thursday, February 6, 1902—10:00 P.M.
Francesca tried to make herself invisible—no easy task. Two roundsmen stood guarding the woman's body, and two detectives were walking around the yard, looking for clues. A police wagon was coming down the block, apparently with more officers, and Bragg's sleek, shiny motorcar had just pulled up at the curb.
She almost cringed, but she was far too upset to do so. There was no mistake. The dead woman had been in the crowd behind the reporters on Tuesday as she had begun the interview. She had been staring at Francesca, clearly a woman in trouble and in fear. And when Francesca had tried to approach her, the woman had turned and fled, almost being run over by a coach in the process.
Oh, dear God. Francesca closed her eyes, finding it difficult to breathe. If only they had spoken, that woman might now be alive!
Francesca tried to regain her composure, hearing Bragg's car door slam. After finding the body, she had quickly looked around the grounds, but the killer had made sure to cover up all his tracks. The only footprints were hers. Spending no more than a few moments in a brief search of the scene, she had pounded on Mrs. Hopper's front door—only to realize she was at No. 42 East 30th Street, and that Mrs. Hopper lived next door. The couple who lived in the house she had been erroneously spying upon sent a servant to the police station, as they did not have a telephone. Instead of waiting inside with them, Francesca had gone back outside, walking along the street and looking for the murder weapon.
Bragg had told her once that it was usually found close to the victim. But she had not seen a knife anywhere.
Now, she watched him approach. Her breath stuck in her chest, but her emotions had little to do with eagerness to see him.
She did not know what he was doing there, but she could guess. One of the detectives, Murphy, knew her from the past two investigations. He had asked her to remain at the scene of the crime, only briefly questioning her. Somehow, he must have relayed to Bragg that she was present.
Their eyes connected in the dark, across the bloody expanse of turned-up snow. Hatless, his brown, wool overcoat open and swinging about him, he walked directly to the body. He knelt down, then began speakin
g with Murphy. Francesca wished she knew what they were saying.
How angry, she wondered, would he be at finding her at another murder scene? But this was no fault of hers, she thought defensively. And then she felt ill and guilty again.
He stood up, not brushing the snow from his knees. Then he approached her. She could not smile. "Fancy meeting you here," she said tightly.
"I am in shock," he said, not smiling. His eyes held a dangerous light.
"Bragg, this is not what you are thinking. This is not what it looks like."
"Did you, or did you not, find the corpse?" he demanded.
Her chin went up. "I did."
"So tell me not to think what I am thinking!" he cried. "Francesca, this is simply unacceptable. One week ago, I found you with another corpse. Or have you forgotten?"
"Bragg, please." She touched his bare hand. "That was different! Miss de Labouche hired me to help her dispose of the body. This time I fell on the body, purely by chance." She realized that she was trembling.
"You fell on the body?" He was disbelieving.
She nodded and looked up at the tree. "I was up there."
"In the tree?" He was even more incredulous.
She nodded grimly. "I am lucky I did not break my neck," she added, strategically.
"Are you all right?" he asked instantly.
Her ploy had worked. She showed him her abraded and raw hands. They looked much worse because she had the victim's blood on her right one.
He turned her hands over, staring. Then he dropped them and looked at her. "I can see I am going to chase you all over the city, Francesca," he said tersely. "What were you doing in the tree? No, let me guess. You are on a case."
His anger had been diffused. But she had forgotten all about their wager, which she had lost. She stared in dismay at his striking features, imagining the evening of theater, dancing, and dinner that they would not share.
"You have a new client," he said grimly.
She nodded slowly. "Yes, I do. Bragg—there is more."
