by Brenda Joyce
Francesca inhaled, hard. At least she had bought herself some time, at least Andrew was coming around to her point of view. "Thank you, Papa," she said.
"Have a good day," he returned.
Francesca watched him leave the room. Andrew would soon be on her side of the fence again, but Julia was another matter, indeed. Now that Evan was affianced, she would sink her teeth into finding Francesca a suitor—and a husband. Francesca sighed.
If ever the day came, she would have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the altar, she decided firmly.
With that unpleasant image in her head, Francesca left the room.
Francesca was in her bedroom at her desk, her biology notes in front of her, when Connie walked in. Fortunately, she was not able to concentrate, as she kept thinking about the young woman whom she had found dead in the snow. The guilt had lessened a bit, but her resolve to find the killer had grown. Her new client was also on her mind. Therefore, her sister's appearance was hardly an interruption. Francesca smiled and said, "Don't you ever knock?"
"The door was open," Connie returned, smiling widely. "How do I look?"
Francesca blinked, bewildered, for as always, her sister was sheer perfection. The pale pink dress she wore was more than lovely and more than elegant, and her blue eyes were sparkling. In fact, Connie looked quite happy, which pleased Francesca to no end. Maybe Connie had not been exaggerating when she had said the past must be dismissed; maybe she and Neil had truly mended their fences, and all was as it should be. Francesca was pleased. "You have never been more beautiful, and I must say, your spirits seem exceedingly good."
"They are," Connie said—and she grinned. She grinned and pirouetted a bit—and Francesca's smile vanished.
She shot to her feet. "Oh, God! I forgot! Today is Friday—you have a luncheon with Calder Hart!"
Connie smiled coyly. "I certainly do—at one. I only came to ask you if this dress is too prim and proper."
Francesca stared. "Too prim and proper?" she echoed.
"Well, it is a rather virginal shade of pink, don't you think?"
"Have you lost your mind? You cannot meet him for lunch!" Francesca cried, truly agitated. Calder Hart was a notorious ladies' man. He did not even try to elude his terrible reputation; indeed, he flaunted it. And Francesca knew beyond a doubt that he was preying upon her sister. For he was a man who found married ladies fascinating, and the whole world knew it. And this in spite of the fact that he had a mistress, and even consorted with a pair of beautiful sisters in a brothel.
"I can, and I shall, and we have already had this conversation. Do I look too prim?" Connie walked over to the Venetian mirror above an extraordinarily carved walnut bureau, and her reflection became anxious.
"How can you preen for him? What about your husband?" Francesca cried, moving to stand beside her.
Their gazes met in the mirror. "Hart is a friend and nothing more, and I am doing nothing wrong." Connie blushed. "I am well aware that he is a terrible flirt, but many married women enjoy an inconsequential flirtation now and then."
"But not you," Francesca pointed out.
Connie faced her. "I have changed. I am enjoying his attentions. Fran, you almost sound as if you do not trust me. It is only lunch."
"Oh, Con, I trust you," Francesca said. "It is Hart I do not trust. He thinks to seduce you!"
"At lunch?" Connie asked, rolling her eyes, but her color deepened.
"How much do you wish to wager that after lunch he will offer you a ride somewhere? And in his coach, I am certain he will make his move."
"But I am taking my own coach," Connie said.
"Then he will invite you to see his art collection!"
"I have already seen it," she said. Her gaze met Francesca's and now they both blushed. Hart's collection was infamous; one of the paintings he displayed openly in his entry hall was absolutely sacrilegious, and he had a very shocking nude woman hanging in his grand salon.
"I am sure he has a hundred paintings upstairs in his private apartments," Francesca muttered. She was going to have to have a serious conversation with Hart, oh yes.
"Oh please. Anyway, we are meeting at one, so I must be off."
"Please don't go," Francesca said, following her from the room. "Now I am worried, Con. What will happen when Neil finds out?"
"I am merely having lunch!" Connie said over her shoulder as they went downstairs. "Besides, I am not telling him—as there is nothing to tell."
Francesca had a terrible feeling—no good would come of this flirtation, oh no. "Where are you dining?"
"Sherry Netherland's," Connie said, and on the landing she whirled. "Why?"
"Perhaps I might chaperone," Francesca said bluntly.
"I don't think so," Connie returned evenly. "In fact, I seem to recall your suggesting just such a thing on Tuesday, and Hart quite clearly declined your offer."
Francesca folded her arms, annoyed now to no end, and watched as Connie went downstairs. The two of them had flirted madly on Tuesday in the dining room of the Plaza Hotel. In fact, Francesca knew Hart was rather fond of her. But on that afternoon, it had been as if she did not even exist.
Why? She and Connie looked almost alike. Was it because she was the prim, bookish one? Of course, she wasn't jealous, not a stitch. She was in love with Bragg.
Of course, Hart knew that, too. And Bragg was his half brother, in spite of the rivalry and animosity they shared.
Francesca sighed, when she heard Connie call up to her. "Fran! Mrs. Kennedy is here to see you."
Surprised, Francesca started down the last flight of stairs, wondering what had brought Maggie Kennedy back to see her so soon. She could not imagine it would be something as innocuous as not being able to find one of the ordered fabrics, and she could have sent Joel with such a message. Since she also worked, shouldn't she be at the Moe Levy factory?
Francesca entered the large entrance hall, which was graced with pairs of huge Corinthian columns, marble panels inset in the walls, and a magnificent pastoral scene painted upon the high ceiling. Pleasure filled her when she saw Joel's dark, shaggy-haired head, until she realized he was standing protectively by his mother, and her smile vanished.
Maggie turned. Her eyes were red from weeping, and she held a handkerchief in her hand. It was crumpled.
Francesca met Connie's gaze briefly, and her sister left. She hurried forward. "Mrs. Kennedy, what has happened! Are you all right? Please, do come inside and sit down."
"Thank you," Maggie managed.
Francesca looked inquiringly at Joel as she ushered the pair into the small salon. He gave her a long look, one she could not decipher. What could be wrong?
Maggie sank into a chair. Clearly, she was fighting not to weep again.
Francesca did not sit. She took Maggie's hands in hers, kneeling in front of her. "Surely this is not about a few gowns. Has something happened?"
Maggie nodded, still not able to speak.
Joel, who was slim and short, his complexion extremely pale in a startling contrast to his dark eyes and black curly hair, stood by his mother. "Her friend been done in," he said bluntly. "Colder than a block o' ice."
"Oh, dear," Francesca said, gripping Maggie's hands more tightly.
Maggie inhaled hard. "I am sorry, Miss Cahill."
"Francesca. Please, do not worry."
"No." She attempted a smile and failed. "I... I am in shock. You see, I just heard ... I was at work... Mary worked at Moe Levy for a few months last year, that was how we met." Her face seemed about to crumble again.
Francesca pulled up a tufted ottoman and sat down. "Please, start from the beginning."
"You have to find the killer," Joel cried. "She was a nice lady an' she got no man, just her two little girls."
Francesca looked at Joel. "You know I will do my best," she said.
He nodded fiercely. "I know."
"Joel," Maggie whispered, reaching out. He gave her his hand and she clung to it as if he were the st
ronger of the two.
Watching them, Francesca's heart turned over. Suddenly she wanted a son like Joel, someone smart and loyal and too adorable for words. In the next instant, she sat up straighter than a board, stunned by herself. She had never wanted a child before. Of course, she had always assumed that one day she would have several, but just then, the desire had been intense and tangible.
Of course, she would not have children now. Because the man she loved was not available, and she would not marry anyone else.
Maggie was speaking, so softly Francesca had to lean forward to hear her. "The police came to the factory with a drawing of her. They asked if any of us knew her. I recognized the portrait instantly. They took me aside and began asking me questions—I realized something was terribly wrong. But I never dreamed she would be dead!"
"They told you she was dead?"
Maggie nodded. "Her body was found last night by a woman, buried in the snow. They wouldn't tell me how she had died, only that it had been murder."
Francesca stared. She could not speak. Dear God! Maggie's friend was the dead woman she had discovered last night!
Maggie looked at her. "Miss Cahill?"
Francesca swallowed, hard. "Who was she, Mrs. Kennedy?"
"Mary O'Shaunessy, a lovely girl, and as Joel said, she has two daughters, three and six. She never mentioned her husband, and my understanding was that he had left them years ago. She was a seamstress, until recently—a few months ago she began working in a private home as a lady's maid. She was so happy with the change," Maggie added sadly.
"Which home did she work in? Where did she live? Do you think her neighbors will speak with me?" Francesca asked quickly. "And did she mention that she knew she was in danger?"
Maggie seemed puzzled. "She never mentioned that she was in any danger, Miss Cahill. And I cannot recall where she was working, but I am sure one of the neighbors will know. And they are all good, hard-working people, they will speak to you, Miss Cahill."
"I can take you to her flat," Joel said eagerly. "We been out o' work too long," he added.
Impulsively, Francesca ruffled his thick hair. "Yes, we have." She was disappointed that Mary O'Shaunessy had not confided in her friend. "Mrs. Kennedy? I will do everything I can to solve your friend's murder," Francesca said resolutely. And she meant every word.
"Thank you." Maggie seemed relieved, and she had recovered her composure. "I knew you would help us. This is a terrible act of evil, Miss Cahill. Mary was a ray of sunshine. And those poor little girls."
Francesca patted her hand, when she heard her brother's voice in the foyer. Loudly, he was asking for Francesca. By the tone of his voice, she could see that his humor was quite good. But then, Evan was usually in a sunny mood; it was his disposition.
Maggie stood. "I must get back to the factory, or I will be let go, especially after calling in sick yesterday."
Francesca walked her into the hall. "If they think to dismiss you, let me know, as I will have a word with the manager."
Maggie smiled a bit at her.
Evan was approaching, his strides long and careless. He was dark-haired and handsome; now, his tie was askew, his suit jacket carelessly open as well, revealing his lean, muscular build. He was smiling at Francesca. "So there you are! I have had the oddest request." His gaze moved over Joel and Maggie with some curiosity. He paused beside her, flinging his arm around her. "And how is my daring, frying pan-wielding little sister?"
"Not funny," Francesca said, supping free. "My, we are jolly today."
"I had a very interesting evening last night," he said, glancing at Maggie again. His brows furrowed a bit, as if puzzled. "Hello. Have we met?" he asked, his blue gaze sliding over her figure.
"No." Maggie looked at the floor.
"Evan, this is Mrs. Kennedy, and her son, Joel. My brother, Evan."
"So he's the one keepin' Grace Conway," Joel said flatly, his eyes bright with admiration.
Grace Conway was an actress. She was also Evan's mistress, never mind that he was unwillingly engaged to Sarah Channing. Francesca had never heard of her before she had discovered her relationship to her brother as, apparently, she did vaudeville theater in working neighborhoods. But clearly Joel knew the beautiful red-headed actress and singer, and as Maggie glanced up, blushing, it was clear that she did as well.
A silence fell.
Evan was also blushing, high up on his cheekbones. "Well," he said, looking from Joel to Fran. "I can see that your hoodlum friend is well-versed in my private affairs."
"I am sorry," Francesca managed, mortified.
"Wut's the ruckus? She's a beauty, an' we saw her in some play when I was ten. I ain't niver forgot her," Joel said, looking from Evan to Francesca and back again.
Evan took Joel by the arm. "Come with me a moment, young fellow," he said. He pulled him to the other end of the hall, and, as he was six foot tall, he leaned over to mutter in Joel's ear. There was nothing harsh or unkind in his manner, and Francesca smiled a bit, watching the pair. Joel turned red, looking abashed.
Francesca faced Maggie. "I am sorry about that," she said.
Maggie had been watching the exchange between Evan and Joel as well. "So am I. I didn't mean to cause your brother embarrassment. I will speak with Joel. He doesn't understand etiquette, Miss Cahill, but that is my fault," she said firmly.
Francesca felt a rush of warmth toward the other woman. "It's not your fault."
"No. I know the difference between your class and mine. But I haven't had time to teach Joel proper manners, and it didn't seem so very important—until now." She glanced toward Evan and Joel again as they returned, Joel still flushed, Evan apparently having recovered from the brief moment of embarrassment. Blushing, Maggie said, "Mr. Cahill, please forgive me and my son. We have been terribly rude."
Evan smiled at her, but he seemed a bit puzzled again. "There is nothing to forgive. If one dares to overstep oneself, why, I suppose one must face the consequences."
Maggie avoided his eyes. She nodded. "Joel? We have to go."
"Are you all right, Mrs. Kennedy?" Evan suddenly asked, reaching out to detain her.
She somehow sidestepped him. Very much like a skittish filly. "I am fine." She still refused to look at him. She smiled at Francesca, but it seemed strained. "Thank you again."
"I will not let you down," Francesca vowed. "But may I keep Joel for a while? I will see that he gets safely home by suppertime."
Maggie nodded. "Of course."
"Here, I will see you to the door," Evan said amiably.
Maggie barely looked at him. As she had never taken off her navy blue wool coat, she nodded and allowed him to walk with her to the front door, where a doorman opened it for her. Evan turned and hurried back to Francesca. "Has she been crying?" he asked with some concern.
Francesca hesitated, and gave Joel a look that meant, be quiet. "She has lost a dear friend."
"I am so sorry," Evan said, his expression turning grave. "If I had known, I would have been more gallant."
"You were very gallant," Francesca said.
Evan glanced back at the closed front door. "I would swear to it, though, that we have met before."
"Evan, I do not think so. She is a seamstress."
He shrugged. "Perhaps it was at one of Grace's performances."
"Perhaps. So why have you come looking for me? I am on my way out."
He faced her squarely. "Your friend the police commissioner called. He has asked me and my fiancée to join you and him at the theater this Saturday night."
Francesca stared.
"Am I missing something?" Evan asked.
"No, no, we thought to take in the new musical which had received such rave reviews. It would not be proper for us to go alone, so clearly Bragg thought you might wish to join us."
"I accepted, as I saw no graceful way not to," Evan said. "But let's make it a short evening, if you don't mind?" With that, he walked away.
Francesca did not know how
to feel. Clearly, Evan had no wish to spend any time with his fiancée, Sarah Channing. And, as clearly, Bragg thought to keep the evening innocent by having another couple present.
Francesca realized she was disappointed when she had no right to be.
She turned to Joel, shrugging her disappointment aside. It was better this way. To yearn for a romantic evening had been terribly foolish—and wrong. Besides, she had more important matters on her mind. "How about a bit of lunch before we go speak with Mary O'Shaunessy's neighbors?" Her wish was to fatten him up.
He beamed. "Did you hear my stomach growlin'?" he asked.
Francesca smiled in return. "No, but I do believe we have lots of leftover roast turkey and a fresh apple pie waiting just for you."
THREE
Friday, February 7, 1902—2:00 P.M.
It had been very tempting, as their cab had gone down Fifth Avenue, to pause at Sherry Netherland's. In fact, Francesca had recognized Hart's large, elegant brougham standing not far from the famous hotel's entrance, in a line of other, similar coaches, his carriage man chatting with the hotel's doormen. However, she had more important affairs to conduct now.
Joel had told her that Mary O'Shaunessy had lived on Avenue C and 4th Street. This neighborhood was a singularly crowded and depressed one: the tenements seemed older, more ramshackle, and more jam-packed. Francesca felt uneasy even though it was broad daylight; she did not like the various men loitering on the corner, and a pack of boys hanging about one stone stoop made the hairs prickle on her nape. They weren't playing jacks, cards, or dice; they were merely standing about, staring at the passersby with dark, sullen eyes.
"Forgive me if I am wrong," she said, after letting the cabbie go. "But is that a gang of boys, Joel?"
He, too, looked uneasy. "Don't even look at 'em," he warned, low. "Yep, they's the Mugheads, an' they're mean an' ornery. I didn't think they'd be about at this hour, lady. Wish you didn't stand out like a sore thumb."
An image of her parents flashed through her mind. If she fell into jeopardy now, she did not know which party would scare her more, the Mugheads or Andrew and Julia.
