by Brenda Joyce
Francesca knew that Daisy was right. She had known this all along, and it was why she had not been able to accept his proposal at first. It was why, after accepting, she had fled the city for an entire month, grappling with her emotions, her fear. It was why, in the darkest hours of the night, she would wake up in a sweat, terrified of her engagement, her impending marriage, terrified of Calder Hart. Daisy was right. There was simply no way a man like that was going to stay happily and faithfully married to any woman, much less herself. And the day he wandered was the day the sunshine would leave her life.
But she had to speak. So she drew her shoulders back. “I know.”
Daisy started.
Francesca somehow smiled, holding her head high. “You are hardly telling me anything new, Daisy. Remember, when I first met Hart I was in love with Rick Bragg. We became friends first, not lovers, and I know more about him than anyone else.” That was a stretch of the truth. She continued calmly. “We remain friends. And we share desire. He admires me, I respect him. It’s really very simple—we make a good match. It’s hardly a love match.” And she continued to smile.
“So you are marrying him because you cannot have the man you really want?” Daisy asked, her gaze intent and unblinking.
The question felt dangerous. For a split second, Francesca hesitated, then prayed her answer would not come back to haunt her. “Yes,” she lied. And she thought about what Hart had said last night. “And I am marrying him for wealth and power. As his wife, I can conduct my business affairs as I choose. We both know how independent I am. I will have more freedom than a woman could possibly dream of. Hart has assured me of that.”
Daisy stared. Then, with some admiration, she said, “You are clever, Francesca. You had me fooled. I thought you naive enough to have fallen in love and to think Hart your knight in shining armor. I apologize. Rose and I need not worry. This shall be a very good match, indeed.”
“We both think so,” Francesca said, hoping that Daisy did not see her relief. She began to tremble.
Daisy sighed and kissed her cheek. The most delicate floral scent emanated from her. “Please come and call on us. We would love to receive you,” she said.
“I will try,” Francesca said, not meaning it.
Daisy took her hands warmly in hers. “I hope you do not mind my speaking out. You are always forthright. I assumed you would appreciate my honesty.”
“Of course I do,” she lied with another smile.
“Hart is a lucky man,” Daisy said. Smiling at Francesca, she gave her an odd look and walked away.
Disturbed by that last remark and the lingering glance Francesca felt her knees give way. She collapsed against the counter, barely able to breathe. Tears rapidly filled her eyes.
She was naive and she was a fool. She had believed, or she’d wanted to, that Hart would be faithful to her forever! But Daisy was right. She was a current fascination, and only that. Marriage or no, one day his interest would wander and when that day came, she would be destroyed.
“Ma’am? Are you all right?”
Francesca faced the shopgirl behind the counter. “I’m fine,” she managed. “Thank you.” But even as she spoke, she wondered what she should do. These past few weeks she had managed to control her deepest, most secret fears. The recent encounter with Daisy had brought them to light again. Nothing had changed.
Hart did not love her, did not even believe in love, and she was falling head over heels for him. Dear God, what should she do?
If she was smart, she would walk away. That much, at least, was clear.
Either that, or she would have to be very, very brave.
CHAPTER FOUR
Wednesday, April 23, 1902 1:00 p.m.
HAVING COMPOSED HERSELF, Francesca paused before the counter selling soaps and perfumes. A pretty, brunette shopgirl was discussing the merits of a lavender soap with an older, elegant lady. Francesca waited at the counter and stared.
The shopgirl was in her early twenties. Her black dress had a white collar and cuffs and did not quite conceal all of her throat. Today, Francis O’Leary wore no bandage. A pale pink line on her neck indicated that she had been the Slasher’s victim.
The lady opened her purse and took out some coins. Francesca noticed Francis’s rings. On the fourth finger of her left hand, a tiny red stone winked in a band of silver. Francesca wondered if the ring had any significance.
Her soap wrapped and in a small shopping bag, the buyer left. Francis approached Francesca with a smile. “May I help you, miss?”
Francesca smiled in return, handing Francis O’Leary her business card. It read:
Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire
No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City
All Cases Accepted, No Case too Small
Francis read the card, her dark eyes growing wide. With a small gasp, she looked up. “What is this about?” she said on a note of fear.
“Are you Francis O’Leary?” Francesca asked kindly.
Francis tried to hand her back the card. “Yes, I am! This is about the Slasher?” She seemed panicked.
“You may keep my card, please, in case you need to reach me,” Francesca said. “Yes, this is about the Slasher. I have taken the case, Mrs. O’Leary.”
Francis had paled. “I told the police everything I could,” she whispered.
“Would you mind repeating it all to me?”
She hesitated. “No, I don’t mind…but I am trying to forget it, him!”
Francesca clasped one of her hands. “We must prevent him from striking again. Did you hear that there was a third victim this past Monday—and that she died?”
Francis cried out. “But he did not want to kill me! I am certain of it!”
“How can you be certain?” Francesca asked.
“I’m sure of it! He could have killed me if he had wanted to!”
“Please, Mrs. O’Leary, just tell me what happened.”
Francis hesitated and nodded. She continued to clutch the glass counter, her knuckles white. “I had no idea someone was in my flat. I had worked all day. I was tired, very tired, and hungry.” Tears filled her eyes. “I had bought a loaf of bread on my way home with some dried corned beef. I thought to soak my feet a bit and then eat.”
Francesca wondered if every shopgirl in the city had ill-fitting shoes. “Go on.”
“I unlocked my door, then closed and locked it. I was about to sit down on the sofa when he grabbed me from behind.” Her wide eyes shimmered with the tears that had yet to fall. “He held the knife to my throat, the blade barely touching my skin. He said something in a hoarse whisper, and then he cut me. And then he shoved me away, to the floor. When I looked up, he was gone.”
“The police say you cannot recall his words.”
Francis simply looked at her. The tears fell now.
“I am so sorry to upset you,” Francesca whispered. “But I do not want another woman hurt—or murdered.”
“I dreamed about him last night.”
Francesca was surprised. “What did you dream?”
“It makes no sense. I dreamed he called me a faithless woman.” She looked down at the display beneath the glass countertop. She whispered, not looking up, “I think…I am almost certain that he called me a faithless…bitch.”
Her surprise increased. Francesca leaned forward. “You think that because of your dream or because you can remember his words?”
Francis gazed at her. “It was so real. Like remembering something you should have never forgotten.”
If the Slasher had called her faithless, that would imply that he knew Mrs. O’Leary. “Would you recognize his voice again if you heard it?”
“Yes!” She shivered. “Of course I would.”
Francesca was thoughtful. Then she held up Francis’s left hand. “Is that an engagement ring?”
Francis blushed, smiling. “Yes. My friend gave it to me Saturday. The attack made him realize how much he loves me.”
“Y
our friend?”
“Sam Wilson. My…husband…died two years ago. There’s been no one since. It’s been so long…and then I met Sam.” She was smiling and clearly in love. “We met in March. March 3rd, to be exact.”
“I am very happy for you,” Francesca said, hiding her surprise. Bragg had told her that Francis’s husband had disappeared over two years ago, clearly having decided to leave his wife. But she was claiming that he was dead—while preparing to marry another man. Did her fiancé, Sam Wilson, know the truth? Francesca wondered. And she could not help but note that Francis had met Sam Wilson a month before the Slasher’s first assault.
“Mrs. O’Leary, the police commissioner told me that your husband abandoned you two years ago. That he simply left one day and never came back.” Francesca stared at the woman.
Francis turned crimson. “Oh,” she said, sitting down on a stool behind the counter. “Oh,” she said again. Tears filled her eyes.
“So he isn’t dead?” Francesca asked, this time gently.
Francis shrugged. “He’s dead to me, Miss Cahill. Please, please don’t tell my fiancé! Sam has made me so happy!” she cried.
“I won’t say a word,” Francesca said. She felt sorry for the young woman now. “Why would anyone, much less the Slasher, label you as faithless?”
Her dark eyes widened. “I wouldn’t know! I adored my husband, Miss Cahill, until the day he left. Until that day, he was a good, solid, honest and hardworking man—or so I thought! I was never faithless to Thomas.”
Until now, Francesca thought silently. She decided to ask Bragg if the police could attempt to locate Francis’s errant husband. “And what about your loyalty to Sam?”
“I would never be faithless to the man in my life. I’ve seen no one but Sam since my husband left me.”
Francesca met the other woman’s unwavering gaze. She did not look away as most liars did, and there was no change in her coloring. Francesca felt rather strongly that Francis had buried her husband some time ago—that, to her, he was really dead. If Francis had been called a faithless bitch, it had probably meant nothing more than the words of a maddened killer. “Mrs. O’Leary, do you have any idea where your husband is? Have you heard from him at all since he left?”
Francis set her jaw. “I have not had a single letter—not a single word! But I do suspect he went West. He was always talking about the open ranges of Texas and California. And Miss Cahill, if he did go out West, well, then he could be dead, couldn’t he? They say that land is a dangerous, lawless place.”
Francesca realized that trying to locate Thomas O’Leary could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Let’s get back to the Slasher. You seem to think he was already in your flat when you came in that night.”
“He must have been there, waiting for me.” She shivered, blanching again. “I’m sorry. I can’t forget that man. He was terrifying—at first I thought he meant to kill me!”
“But how would he get into your flat when you left it locked that day?”
“Perhaps he found an open window,” Francis said. “Perhaps I had left a window unlocked. The police said they were all locked, but he could have locked it after entering.”
“It is certainly a possibility, considering you live on the ground floor. Could he have followed you inside? You said you unlocked the door, closed and locked it immediately and only then, when you were about to sit down on the sofa, he assaulted you.”
“Yes.” But she appeared uncertain now.
“But what did you do with your bag of groceries, your purse? And I assume you wore a hat and perhaps a coat or shawl? Wouldn’t you put your bags down first and then remove your hat and shawl and after that lock the door?”
Francis stared. After a moment, she said, “You’re right. Of course you’re right. There were a few moments when the door was unlocked, maybe even ajar, while I did those things.” She flushed. “I seem to remember the door being ajar when I went back to lock it. Oh, God! He slipped inside while I was unpinning my hat or some such thing!” she cried.
“Yes, I think the Slasher could have slipped inside after you. I am assuming you did not light a candle yet?” Francesca now made some rapid notes.
“I never had a chance to light a candle that night, Miss Cahill. It hadn’t become fully dark yet. After I locked the door I went to sit, and that was when he seized me.” Her eyes re mained wide, but respect filled them now.
Francesca smiled briskly. “You have been quite helpful, Mrs. O’Leary. Would you mind if I spoke to Mr. Wilson?”
“No, of course not, but why would you think to speak with my fiancé?”
“Perhaps you told him something that you have forgotten to tell me,” Francesca said lightly. But that was not the real reason. She could not rule out any man who knew any of the victims as a suspect, including Francis’s fiancé—or her errant husband.
Of course, at this point in time, Francesca could not dismiss the possibility that a madman was choosing pretty women as his victim, purely by random.
But oddly, she did not think so. “We will be in touch,” she said.
THE LAW OFFICES WHERE Evan Cahill worked were just a few blocks uptown from the Lord and Taylor store. As she was on her way uptown to interview Kate Sullivan and then to meet Bragg to interview little Bridget O’Neil, she had the perfect opportunity to call on her brother. She hadn’t seen him in a week; when he had been living at home they had seen one another on a daily basis.
The offices of Garfield and Willis were housed in an older building built at the turn of the previous century. It was still stately, with a brick facade and classical front. After being shown to a small reception room, Francesca was asked to wait for Evan there. She admired the dark wood floors, well worn but gleaming with wax, the wood paneling on the lower half of the walls and the gold fabric above and the large crystal chandelier overhead. She did not sit. Still thinking about her inter view with Francis O’Leary, she also recalled her conversation with Maggie Kennedy last night. She wondered what Evan would say when he learned of her new case.
He strode into the room, smiling. “Fran! What a wonderful surprise.”
Francesca rushed to embrace him. As always, her brother was smiling and he appeared happy. Evan had a sunny nature. He was also tall, dark and dashing, and until his fall from Cahill grace, he had been a premier catch. Francesca smiled up at him, searching his eyes. “You seem very well.”
He laughed and shrugged. Then, “I haven’t been at the tables in over a month, Fran.”
She cried out in surprised delight. Evan had a passion for gaming and, to her dismay, she had learned that his debts exceeded a hundred thousand dollars. That had been one of the causes of friction between him and their father. Recently, the man to whom he owed the vast sum of money had threatened his life. Francesca had borrowed fifty thousand dollars from Hart to pay him partially back, and Hart had called on the creditor as well, to make it clear that Evan’s life would not be forfeit for his debts. Since then, there had been no more threats and no more assaults. But on several occasions in the past Evan had lapsed into his old habit of gambling. Francesca was thrilled that he had managed thus far to stay away from the nightclubs. “That is wonderful,” she said. “And there is no temptation?”
He gave her a dark look. “There is always temptation, Fran. I will be tempted until my dying day.” Then he lightened. “But the countess is keeping me quite busy and very distracted.”
An image of the radiant, auburn-haired widow came to mind. “Has it become serious?” Francesca asked lightly. She happened to like the flamboyant countess, but she did not quite trust her. Bartolla Benevente had once meddled in her private affairs when she had been infatuated with Rick Bragg.
Evan hesitated, running his hand through his dark hair, and paced over to the wall of windows, which looked out onto Madison Avenue. Francesca followed him. Below, the street was filled with carriages and trolleys; the city was doing business in full swing. Pedestrians—mostly dar
kly clad gentlemen—hurried up and down the street. She suddenly thought about Hart and the evening ahead and she smiled.
Then she thought about Daisy and she frowned, her heart skipping with fear.
“I don’t know,” Evan finally said, facing Francesca directly. “I am in love, but…I have been in love before.”
How mature his assessment was. Francesca was impressed. “Yes, you have. And you do gravitate to the Bartolla Beneventes of this world.”
He smiled a little at that. “Yes, I do. She would make a good wife.”
“I doubt she wishes to wed a law clerk.”
“Yes, I agree, and I have thought about that. She urges me frequently to make up with Father.”
Francesca met his gaze and touched his arm. “You do what you need to do, Evan. I am very proud of you.”
He shook his head, his expression self-deprecating. “And how are you? You seem radiant, Francesca, but then I look into your eyes and I see that you are worried. Is everything all right?”
Now it was Francesca who hesitated. It crossed her mind to tell Evan about the awful conversation with Daisy, but she had no wish to dwell on the painful subject. “I am on another case,” she said, an attempt to distract herself. Then she gave up. “I ran into Daisy a few hours ago.”
Evan started. “Daisy? You mean that lovely creature whom Hart…you mean—” he coughed “—Hart’s, er, Daisy Jones?”
Francesca hugged herself. “I know that he was keeping her as a mistress, Evan. You need not be discreet with me.”
Evan stared, his forehead creased. “Fran, it is over?” Doubt filled his tone.
She knew she should not have raised the subject. “He broke it off with her when I accepted his proposal.”
Evan spoke with care. “What I love most about you is your loyalty and trust.”
“What does that mean?” she asked with dread.
“Fran, I don’t know how to say this, but he keeps her still!”
