Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  Fortunately, the first two victims were alive, which meant she could interview them, perhaps even that afternoon. Although the police had spoken with them, she had not a doubt they had missed crucial clues. Bragg had not been personally involved in the case at that time. Then she remembered her mother’s dinner party and sighed. She would have to attend or there would be a vast price to pay—Julia Van Wyck Cahill was not to be crossed lightly. The interviews would have to wait, as it was well past six already. And then there was Gwen O’Neil. Francesca intended to interview her, too. She wasn’t thrilled that Gwen and her daughter, Bridget, lived right next door to the last victim, just as she wished Maggie did not reside so close by with her children, either. However, the neighborhood was filled with impoverished young women.

  As she paused before Maggie’s flat, she thought about the distance now separating her and Bragg. Perhaps she had been a fool to think that he could reconcile with his wife and she could marry another man and somehow they would remain friends. She could not help but be saddened. On the other hand, it was clear to her that he loved his wife, and she was certainly infatuated with Hart. In fact, he had gone to Chicago on business almost two weeks ago and it had been very hard not to think about him constantly.

  At least Leigh Anne would be leaving the hospital and going home tomorrow. She wondered if she dared to call on her at home. Then she heard childish shrieks and laughter. Francesca began to smile as she knocked upon the door. Maggie was a widow and was raising four children by herself.

  Eleven-year-old Joel Kennedy, once a pickpocket and now Francesca’s invaluable sidekick, promptly answered her knock. He had pitch-black hair and fair skin and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He knew the city like the back of his hand and had helped her out of danger too many times to count. His face was flushed and he looked extremely annoyed. When he saw Francesca, though, he brightened. “Miz Cahill!”

  She glanced past him into the one-bedroom flat, which was usually tidy. Now, goose feathers floated about the family room. Joel’s two young brothers, Matt and Paddy, had clearly been in a pillow fight. The boys were on the floor, holding the mostly empty pillows, howling with laughter. They had clearly eaten, as she saw plates with bread crumbs on the kitchen table. Joel followed her gaze and scowled. “Idi’ts,” he said. “Mum will be fierce unhappy when she sees them down feathers all wasted like that.”

  “I see there has been no homework today?” Francesca asked. She knew that Maggie had Matt in school, unlike many other working-class families. Too many of the city’s impoverished classes needed the extra income their children could generate. There was also a question of extreme overcrowding and under-funding for the city’s public schools. It was a shame.

  Joel, who could read and no longer attended school, shrugged. “He got some letters to do. But he don’t want to do homework now. I didn’t want to fight about it. Got better things to do.”

  Francesca closed the door behind her as Joel’s little three-year-old sister came stumbling out of the bedroom, clearly having been napping. “Joel, if they have eaten, Matt should sit down and do his letters. You know how to read—don’t you want your brother to have the same skills and advantages as you? Hello, Lizzie!” She tousled the sleepy child’s silky black hair.

  Joel scowled at her. “Are you here on business, Miz Cahill? It’s been awful quiet for way too long.”

  Francesca set her purse down on the sofa. “Yes, I am. And I agree with you—it has been a quiet spell for us. Shouldn’t your mother be home at any moment?”

  “She should be home real soon. So what case are we on?” he asked with an impish grin. His dark eyes sparkled.

  She patted his shoulder. “We are of a similar nature, you and I,” she said fondly. Then, her smile fading, she said, “A woman was murdered two doors down, Joel. She was Gwen O’Neil’s neighbor.”

  He paled. “Miz O’Neil an’ Bridget?”

  “They’re fine,” she assured him. “Can you start asking questions in the neighborhood? Did anyone notice a suspicious sort lurking about Margaret Cooper or her apartment or building? Was she afraid? Did she know she was in danger? Who were her friends? Did she have any visitors recently? We suspect the killer to be a man. And it might be the Slasher,” she added.

  His eyes were wide and he nodded eagerly. “I can get started the minute Mum comes home,” he said.

  “Get started on what?” Maggie Kennedy asked, letting herself into the flat. A paper sack filled with groceries was in her arms. “Francesca!” She smiled brightly. “How nice to see you!”

  “We got another case,” Joel told his mother in a rush as she gave him a hug. “Been a murder, right on this block!” Maggie paled.

  “Joel, please, let me explain,” Francesca said.

  Maggie moved to hug the rest of her children in turn, but Francesca could see her distress. “What is this mess?” she asked the two younger boys. “You know I can’t afford more down! Now start picking up the feathers, every single one. Shame on you both,” she added, a tremor in her tone.

  Francesca knew that Joel had worried her. She laid her palm on Maggie’s back as the other woman straightened and smiled reassuringly at her. “Shall we sit?”

  “Of course, where are my manners!” Maggie cried, flushing. She rushed to the small dining table not far from the stove and sink and pulled out one chair. “Let me boil some water for tea.”

  Francesca went to her and took her arm. “Please, Maggie, do not stand on ceremony. I really wish to discuss the case with you.” She gave her a significant look.

  Maggie met her gaze and slowly nodded. As they sat down, Joel slammed out of the apartment. Maggie started, clearly un- happy. “It’s a miracle, really, for you to be giving him a salary, but…I worry so!”

  Francesca had quickly realized just how invaluable Joel was, so she had offered him employment as her assistant. He, of course, had been thrilled. “You know I would never knowingly put him in the path of danger,” Francesca said, meaning it.

  “I know. You have saved my life—and you have really saved Joel’s life, by taking him away from a world of thievery.” Briefly, she cupped her face in her hands, her eyes closed. Then she sighed. “I am glad that Joel works for you, truly I am…”

  Francesca knew that Maggie was very tired from the long hours she put in sewing at the Moe Levy Factory. She touched her hand. “If you do not want him to work for me any longer, I will change it.”

  Maggie shook her head. “He adores you. And he no longer is out on the streets, stealing purses behind my back. I’m just distraught today.”

  Francesca could sense that and she wondered why. “Gwen O’Neil found her neighbor’s body,” she said after a pause.

  Maggie made a choking sound. “Is she all right?”

  Francesca took her hand. “I don’t know. Bragg said she was upset. I imagine she will be home shortly, but she was at police headquarters this afternoon. We suspect it is the Slasher at work again, Maggie. But unlike the others, Margaret Cooper did not survive his latest attack.”

  Maggie made a sound. “I knew them all! They live—lived—nearby.”

  Francesca leaned forward eagerly. “So you are acquainted with all of the victims?”

  “In one way or another,” Maggie cried. “Francis and I seem to shop for our groceries at the same time—she is so kind and so sweet—I often bump into her at Schmidt’s Grocery Store. She was so happy,” she added in a whisper. “She recently told me she was seeing someone she thought very special.”

  Francesca sat up straight. “Isn’t she the one whose husband disappeared some time ago?” If so, then she was still wed.

  “I know she was once married. I had thought she was a widow, actually,” Maggie said with some surprise.

  Bragg had reviewed the file with her, and Francis O’Leary was no widow. “Do you know the name of the man she is seeing?” Francesca asked.

  “No. She didn’t say. But she lives two blocks from here.”

 
“Yes, on Twelfth Street.” Francesca decided she must interview Francis O’Leary immediately on the morrow. “Where does she work?”

  “She is a shopgirl at the Lord and Taylor store,” Maggie said. “But when I saw her at church yesterday, she looked terrible.. I think she wore a bandage under the collar of her gown and she had a black eye. Perhaps she is not back at work yet.”

  Francesca absorbed all of that. If she called early enough, Francis O’Leary would be at home. “And you also knew Kate Sullivan and Margaret Cooper?”

  “I don’t really know Kate, but we nod to one another at church on Sundays. She seems very sweet, but a bit shy. You know I’m friends with Gwen, and I met Margaret at her flat one evening when I had to borrow some sugar. She was so nice as well!” Maggie cried.

  A circle of friends, Francesca thought grimly, then revised her assessment of the situation. It was a circle of acquaintances, all hardworking women who lived very close to one another and would bump into one another in the course of the day or the week. “I want you to be careful,” she finally said.

  Maggie stared, pale, and then glanced anxiously at her children. “Margaret Cooper lived two doors down, Francesca, and Kate Sullivan lives right around the corner. Not even a block away.” She inhaled harshly. “Am I in danger?”

  “None of the three victims had children,” Francesca said truthfully, although she felt that Maggie could very well be in danger. “Just keep your wits about you,” Francesca advised. “And I feel certain the children are not in danger. I believe the odds are that you are not, either. Still, we will exercise caution. Next Monday, I want you and the children to stay with me.”

  Maggie started. “You mean in the mansion?”

  Francesca nodded. This would not be the first time she had put up Maggie and her children in her father’s Fifth Avenue home. “The Slasher seems to be striking on Mondays, Maggie. It is just a silly precaution.” She smiled but it felt grim instead of reassuring.

  Maggie hesitated, clearly torn. “I don’t want to impose,” she finally said.

  Francesca took her hand. “We are friends! It is not an imposition.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Maggie returned slowly. “Maybe the Slasher will be caught by then.”

  “I do hope so!” Francesca cried fervently.

  Maggie smiled a little, perhaps at Francesca’s passionate outburst. Carefully she gazed at the table. Not looking up, she asked softly, “Has Evan returned home?”

  Francesca did not answer at first. She sat back in her chair, recalling how solicitous her brother had been toward Maggie and her children when she had been living briefly with them—and ever since. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had witnessed a romantic spark between them. But it was an impossible match—a seamstress from the Lower East Side and the son of a millionaire. Of course, Evan had recently been disowned by their father. “No, he continues to reside at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I am so very proud of him for standing up to our father.”

  “I heard he took employment,” Maggie said, her eyes still lowered.

  “Yes, as a law clerk.” Society thought it unbelievable— Francesca had heard the gossip—that he would walk away from his family and his fortune.

  Maggie paused. “We haven’t seen him since he came to take the children to the park last month.”

  Francesca did not know what to say. “I haven’t seen him very much since he moved out. This has to be hard for him, working as a clerk and living in a hotel.”

  “I supposed he is still seeing the beautiful countess Benevente?” Maggie murmured.

  Francesca did not know what to say or do. Then she decided the truth was the best course. “Yes, they are often seen to gether. Evan has always gravitated toward bold women like Bartolla Benevente.”

  Maggie finally looked up. “She is so beautiful. They make an astonishing couple. If he marries her, it will be a good match. Don’t you agree?” And she smiled, but it did not reach her blue eyes.

  Francesca could not mistake what she was witnessing. Maggie Kennedy was fond of her brother in spite of the huge so cial gap between them. Francesca was at a loss. Even if Evan shared her feelings, it would be extremely difficult for them to make a match. But Evan did not return her feelings, clearly, as he was so thoroughly preoccupied with the beautiful countess. “Yes, it would be a socially acceptable match.” She hesitated. “But I am not sure Evan is ready to marry anyone, Maggie. Not only is he a bit of a rake, you know, but after leaving the family the way that he did, I think he needs a bit of time to reorganize his life.”

  Maggie stood abruptly. “I am sure he will come home one day. I think I’ll make that tea.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Francesca agreed, relieved to end the subject of her brother.

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN, the day’s spring temperature suddenly gone. Francesca shivered as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, wishing she had her coat with her. Now that the workday was over, the neighborhood had come alive with the sights and sounds of its residents. Men and women were coming and going on the streets, a gang of adolescent boys was playing stickball, ignoring a heavily laden passing dray. There was tre mendous activity in a corner saloon, and many windows were open, candles burning inside. The aroma of roasting meats wafted onto the gas-lit street.

  Francesca had not taken the Cahill coach downtown, and now, glancing around, she regretted it. Obviously there were no cabs in this area. If she walked four blocks, she could catch a horse-drawn omnibus crossing town and then hail a cab from Union Square. But it was dark now, and many of the passersby on the street were a rough, rowdy lot. In fact, she mused as one of a pair of brawny men passing her turned to look at her in her fine skirt and jacket, anyone could be the Slasher.

  But he would not strike again until next Monday—if he chose to follow the pattern he had set.

  She wished that she was not alone. Of course, she did have a small pistol in her purse. She had learned from experience to carry protection. Francesca started forward, clutching her simple black bag. Hart would murder her for being out in such a neighborhood after dark, alone and without transport.

  Someone hurrying her way, a child with him, bumped into her as he passed. Francesca tensed, continuing on, when she was seized from behind. Her heart slammed with fear.

  “Miss Cahill!” a woman cried, her brogue as thick as an Irish bog.

  Francesca turned, relief swamping her, and met not the gaze of a man, but that of a frightened, distressed woman. An instant later she realized that Gwen O’Neil had grabbed her and that Bridget stood closely by her mother. “Mrs. O’Neil! You startled me.”

  Gwen released her. Her eyes were wide in her blanched face. “I cannot believe it’s you! A friendly face—a sight for sore eyes,” she cried.

  Francesca was now calm and attuned to the fact that Gwen was far more than relieved to see her. The woman looked ready to leap out of her skin from fear. She smiled at Bridget and instantly realized that the eleven year old knew all about her neighbor’s murder. She stood stiff and frozen beside her mother, her eyes huge in her small face. “Mrs. O’Neil,” she began, smiling and hoping to calm them both. But this was an opportunity not to be missed. Never mind that she was terribly late for her mother’s dinner party—she would see these two safely home and catch a brief interview. Or perhaps even a substantial one, at that.

  But Gwen jumped as if she had caught on fire, glancing wildly around her, her eyes huge with fear. Francesca took her arm. “Mrs. O’Neil? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Gwen’s dark eyes met hers. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  Bridget was the one who spoke. Tears thickened her voice. “We’re bein’ followed,” she cried.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tuesday, April 22, 1902 7:00 p.m.

  FRANCESCA GLANCED AROUND but saw nothing amiss. Men and women continued to pass on their way home after a long day’s work and the boys continued to slam the ball around in the cobbled street with their sticks. She faced Gwe
n grimly. “Let me take you up to your flat,” she said.

  “Would you?” Gwen cried in obvious relief.

  Francesca took her arm. “Let’s go,” she said kindly. As Bridget preceded them, she glanced over her shoulder one more time. She half expected to see the Slasher standing against the tall iron street lamp, watching them. But nothing on the street had changed.

  There was no light in the small entry hall, and the stairs were also dark with shadow, but that was not unusual in these terri ble tenements. “I assume there are no gaslights?”

  “No,” Gwen breathed, fumbling in her shopping bag. “But I have a candle and matches.”

  Francesca carried a candle and matches as well, but she waited for the other woman to light the wick. Gwen’s hands were shaking so badly, though, that Francesca took the candle and match from her, struck a spark and lit it. Instantly the small, grim entry was illuminated. Someone had hung a cracked mirror on one peeling wall in a futile attempt at decoration. “Let’s go, Bridget,” she said with false cheer, shivering.

  They hurried upstairs in single file, the steps creaking beneath their feet. Gwen and her daughter lived on the second floor, as had Margaret Cooper. When they passed Margaret’s flat, Francesca saw that the door was padlocked, meaning that the police had left. The sign Police Line had been nailed to the door. When she and Bragg had left the flat together, a photographer had just arrived. Bragg had conceived of the singular notion of photographing the victim and the crime scene for reference during the investigation. It was a brilliant idea.

  Gwen unlocked the door, her hands continuing to tremble. The moment they were all inside, she said tersely, “Bridget, light another candle,” as she quickly bolted the door behind them.