Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  “Is it really my safety you are concerned about or is it my reputation—and yours?” Francesca said before she even thought about it.

  Julia stiffened. “I demand an apology,” she said.

  “I’m sorry!” Francesca cried, meaning it. “That was a thoughtless thing to say. I know you fear for my welfare. But I also know you fear for my reputation.”

  “Your welfare is my primary concern. What mother is pleased when some murderous thug holds a knife to her daughter’s throat?”

  Francesca winced. That had happened on her last investigation into a child-prostitution ring. “That was a threat, Mama. He never meant to hurt me.”

  Julia made a desperate, scoffing sound. “And you think to console me with that interpretation?”

  “Oh, Mama,” Francesca whispered, wishing she could somehow soothe her mother’s fears.

  “Of course, when you marry Hart—if you live to do so—your reputation will hardly matter. No one will ever close their salon to you once you are his wife. But, Francesca, I truly fear that your wedding day may never come, not if you continue this frightening new inclination of yours.”

  Francesca inhaled and debated having it out with her mother. She debated telling her that sleuthing was no mere inclination or hobby, that she had found the profession she wished to practice for the rest of her life. Then she decided to postpone such a terrible confrontation. The time to tell her mother was after she was wed.

  But her mind raced. Her father was as disapproving of her sleuthing as Julia was. It had become tiresome, not to mention difficult, working on each and every case while living in their home. And the way things were progressing, it would be a year before she married Hart and had the freedom to come and go as she pleased. She sighed.

  Her life would be so much easier if she had her own flat. She was instantly excited at the idea. Her parents would not agree, of course, but they really could not prevent her from moving out if she decided to do so. The question was, did she dare?

  “Francesca? I can see that you are concocting some scheme,” Julia said sternly.

  Francesca swiftly smiled. She would raise that issue at another time. “Mama, I promise to be careful but I cannot quit my investigation now. The police have asked me for their help, as I am somewhat personally involved in this latest crime.”

  Julia stared, her face tight. “And what crime is that and how are you personally involved?” She shuddered with dread as she spoke.

  Francesca grimaced. “A woman was murdered. A woman who lives two doors from Maggie Kennedy. You know how fond of her I am. I don’t like the fact that she lives so close to the crime scene. A killer is loose in her neighborhood, Mama…” She hesitated. “We think it is the Slasher.”

  Julia cried out.

  Francesca took both of her hands. “I am working with Bragg again. I have the entire police force behind me. I won’t get hurt. But that madman must be brought to justice before he takes another life!”

  Julia erupted. “Now you are working with Rick Bragg again? And don’t you care that his wife remains in the hospital? His wife, Francesca. W-I-F-E,” she said, spelling out the four letters.

  “This is not a romantic involvement,” Francesca cried. “I am engaged to another man!”

  “You were in love with Rick Bragg until a few weeks ago. I am no fool. I know very well that you accepted Hart on the rebound,” she said firmly, turning away.

  Francesca ran after her. “What are you going to do?”

  Julia did not answer her directly. “You are late. Hart is waiting.”

  Francesca followed her downstairs, worried now.

  “Does he know about this latest investigation of yours?” Julia asked, not glancing back, her hand on the gilded railing.

  “Yes, he does,” Francesca said.

  “And he approves?”

  “Hart has no wish to mold me into a stereotype,” Francesca said as they reached the ground floor. “He will never put me in shackles and chains. You know he admires me for my courage and my intellect.”

  “I doubt he approves,” Julia said.

  Francesca now sighed. “I admit that it is more like he tolerates my penchant for sleuthing,” she said. “But if it will make you feel better, I promise to let the police manage the bulk of the matter. I will limit my involvement to asking a few questions of Maggie and her neighbors.” She knew she was pleading now.

  Julia faced her and shook her head in exasperation. “I know you mean well, Francesca, but I also know that you will never bow out of anything that claims your interest. We will continue this discussion later, because Hart is waiting—as is that hoodlum.”

  Francesca did not move. “Joel doesn’t pick purses anymore, Mama,” she said, and then she cried, “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to put an end to this nonsense,” Julia said flatly, and she walked away.

  Francesca did not like the sound of that. She knew how much her marriage to Hart meant to her mother. She should have never mentioned that she was sleuthing once again with Bragg. Hurrying somewhat grimly through the marble-floored reception hall, she found Hart and Joel conversing in the gold salon. They stood before the fire that crackled below the marble mantel of the hearth. She skidded to a halt and they both turned at once.

  She clung to the door, trying to catch her breath and her composure. Hart was a devastating sight in his white dinner coat and black evening trousers, a black bow tie at his throat. He was such a seductive man—his magnetism was simply inescapable. A slow smile spread across his face and his gaze slipped as slowly over her, from head to toe.

  She wished she knew what plan Julia had up her sleeve.

  “I am late,” she gasped. “I am sorry!”

  He strolled to her and pulled her close, whispering, his mouth on her ear, “I don’t care how late you are as long as you are finally here with me.”

  She melted immediately, forgetting Joel was present, and could think of nothing but his large, strong hands on her waist, his firm lips on her ear, his musky scent and the cloak of male virility and power he had somehow enveloped her in. She drew back and their gazes touched. The expression on his face seemed oddly tender, though the gleam in his eyes was not. Her heart skipped.

  “Sometimes you do say the most romantic things,” she teased, but her heart beat like mad and she wished they were dining alone at his house, not at the Waldorf-Astoria. And then she thought about his ex-mistress and their conversation earlier.

  Francesca stiffened. She did not want to worry about the veracity of Daisy’s comments now.

  “Is that what you consider romantic?” he asked with amusement, his grip on her waist tightening.

  She met his gaze and could not manage a smile.

  His smile vanished; his gaze became searching. “What is it?”

  She wanted to blurt, Will you love me forever? But of course she did not, as love was not in the promise he had made to her. He had offered her friendship, respect, admiration and fidelity, but not love. Never love. He had made it clear that love was for fools, and the one thing Hart was not was a foolish man. She swallowed hard. “Nothing,” she managed to say, trying to pull away from him.

  But he did not let her go. “Something is bothering you.”

  She bit her lip so hard that it hurt. “Mama and I had it out in the corridor upstairs. She wants to end my sleuthing once and for all, I think,” she whispered, painfully aware that while she was telling him the truth, she was also lying to him. A part of her so wanted to tell him about the encounter with Daisy. But another part of her refused to do so—the proud, sensible part. Hart would not admire a jealous, insecure woman.

  He stroked her cheek once as he released her. “Really?” There was vast skepticism in his tone. “And that is what is bothering you now?”

  She wished he were not so astute. “No,” she whispered roughly. Then she forced a smile. “I have so looked forward to this evening, Calder, please. I don’t have to share my deepest darkes
t secrets with you, do I?”

  He stared far too thoughtfully at her. It was a moment before he spoke. “Of course you don’t, darling,” he said, but there was something odd and clinical about his tone.

  She shivered. He wasn’t happy with her right now and she could sense it. And that was not how she wished to begin their precious evening alone.

  Then his finger moved down her neck to linger about her collarbone. “I see that you rushed to dress tonight,” he said flatly.

  It was almost as if he was withdrawing from her. “Yes.”

  “And how is your latest case progressing?” he asked, clearly aware that her investigation was the cause of her tardiness.

  “Well,” she said with a genuine smile, “we have learned that it is the Slasher at work, Calder, and we must work frantically now to find him before he strikes again this coming Monday,” she said eagerly.

  He gave her a sidelong look, smiling very slightly.

  And she knew that even though he said nothing, he was thinking about who “we” was. It was a moment before he tore his speculative gaze from hers. Looking reflective indeed, he put his hands in the pockets of his satin-trimmed trousers and strode slowly toward the fireplace.

  Francesca felt that the evening was in a downward spiral. But before she could go over to him and make light of the fact that she was working with the police—and his arch rival—she saw Joel, standing not far from her. The boy was almost hopping from foot to foot, he was so eager to speak with her.

  She had entirely forgotten that he was present. “Joel!” She rushed to him. “Joel, what have you found out?” she asked eagerly. “Did someone see a man leaving Margaret Cooper’s?” How she hoped that was the case!

  “Sorry,” he said ruefully. “No one seems to have seen anything, Miz Cahill.”

  “Then why have you come uptown at this late hour?”

  “It’s Miz O’Neil. Bridget’s mum.”

  Francesca started. “Has something happened? Bragg and I were with her only a few hours ago.” Then she winced and glanced at Hart. But he merely smiled at her, his real feelings impossible to discern.

  “I dunno. But I went to see Bridget, an’ Miz O’Neil spent the entire time standin’ in the kitchen, cryin’ her eyes out. She’s so scared!”

  Francesca stared. “Did she say anything?”

  He shook his head. “No. But she kept going to the window and lookin’ out on the street, then runnin’ back into the kitchen. Like she was lookin’ fer someone outside, but was afraid to be seen herself. I dunno. I have a real bad feeling, Miz Cahill. Something ain’t right.”

  Francesca had a very identical feeling as well. Gwen had seemed jumpy when she and Bragg had last spoken to her, and she had also seemed distressed, although no more so than the day before. Had something happened that she had failed to mention earlier when Francesca and Bragg had been at her flat? Francesca was used to people hiding facts from the police and sometimes it was easier to conduct an interview without an official police presence. Of course, there were times when the strong arm of the law was exactly what was needed.

  “I think you need to speak to her, Miz Cahill. I know ye got fancy plans fer tonight, but mebbe they could wait?” He was hopeful.

  She touched his wool cap. “I think you’re right. Hart and I can dine a bit later. And while we are at it, we can give you a ride home.” She smiled at him and then turned to Hart. “Calder? We need to make one stop before we dine. Can we possibly do that?”

  “Gwen O’Neil’s?” he asked.

  She nodded, praying he would not mind. “I have no curfew,” she said earnestly, “so we can dine later.”

  Hart shook his head, but with tolerant affection now, for he was smiling. “Are you certain you even wish to bother with supper, Francesca? Instead of spending our romantic evening sipping champagne and nibbling on caviar, we can spend it sleuthing by candlelight in the slums downtown.”

  She heard the humor in his tone and was terribly relieved that they had weathered their brief crisis. “Thank you. Thank you for being so understanding.”

  He approached her and took her arm. “Empathy is not my forte, but with you, I shall try.” And he seemed far too reflective again.

  Which made her far too uneasy. She wet her lips. “I do hope you are not too hungry.”

  He laughed and guided her to the entry hall, where a doorman promptly opened the front door. “Frankly, I am famished,” he said. “But I must admit, I am intrigued. Accompanying you on your investigation should prove far more interesting than our previous plans.”

  “Do you mean it?” she cried.

  “I do,” he said, amusement in his eyes. And he added, “The evening suddenly promises to be an extremely unusual one.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wednesday, April 23, 1902 7:00 p.m.

  PETER APPEARED ALMOST magically in the front hall the moment Bragg stepped inside. He took Bragg’s duster without a word; the huge manservant, who was a jack-of-all-trades, rarely spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. Bragg paused as Peter went to the hall closet. He strained to listen and finally, from upstairs, he heard Katie’s gentle laughter.

  He was too tense to smile.

  He then heard Dot shriek in glee, but did not hear a sound from his wife.

  “Peter.”

  The six-foot-four Swede paused. “Sir?”

  “I take it all went well when you brought my wife home from the hospital?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bragg felt more guilt. He had insisted that she come home, and so had the doctors. Perhaps to punish him for not allowing her to remain at Bellevue, Leigh Anne had requested that he send Peter to bring her home and that he not interrupt his busy schedule on her account. How polite she had been. How calm, how detached. He had agreed, knowing damn well that it wasn’t his schedule motivating her. Even if she did not wish to punish him, she certainly wished to avoid him as much as possible. And maybe she was right.

  He wondered now if he was right in forcing her against her will to come home. He thought it was best for her and for the children. Here she was loved, here he had newly hired staff to see to her special needs.

  But maybe he was being selfish. He had his own needs. And in spite of the crushing burden of his guilt, he wanted her home, where she belonged. Although he was torn, the urge to take care of her was far stronger than the urge to flee.

  Besides, he had already learned that he could not flee his own remorse.

  “Mrs. Bragg was very happy to see the children,” Peter said quietly. He hesitated.

  Bragg was surprised. Peter clearly had something more to say. “What is it?”

  “She does not know how to use the chair you ordered for her, sir. She is distressed about it. And she sent the nurse home.”

  Bragg started. “She dismissed Mr. McFee?”

  “No, sir. She told him to return in the morning.”

  That was a relief. They could not manage without the male nurse. “She will become accustomed to the wheeled chair in no time,” he said, more to reassure himself than Peter.

  Peter inclined his head. He was blond and blue-eyed, his hair thinning, his face round. “Will you be taking supper, sir?”

  “No, thank you,” he declined. He had no appetite. How could he, when his heart felt as if it had sunk into his stomach? Slowly, his hand on the worn banister of the narrow Victorian staircase, he went upstairs.

  Conversation drifted from the girls’ small bedroom. Bragg approached with care, his nervous state increasing, glancing inside before he was even on the threshold. Leigh Anne sat in her wheeled chair, excruciatingly beautiful in a pastel green silk dress and a jade necklace. Her hair was pinned up and she was smiling, an angel in their midst. Dot was on her lap, Katie seated on the floor and snuggled up to her feet. She was reading them a children’s bedtime story and in the small room, the wallpaper a beige-and-gold print, the furniture darkly stained and old, the scene was a charming and cozy one.

&nbs
p; He smiled and his heart ached. He should be in that room, too, a welcome part of the family. Instead, he had somehow become the outsider.

  But Katie saw him. She stood and hurried to him, flinging her arms about him, hugging him hard. “You’re home!”

  He stroked her soft, ash-brown hair. “Yes. And your mother’s home,” he said softly. In the past he had not allowed himself to refer to Leigh Anne as the girls’ mother. The children were fostering with them, after all, and he had not intended for Leigh Anne to stay with them for too long. But that had now changed.

  Katie smiled up at him, nodding. “I’m so happy,” she said.

  Just a few months ago, after her real mother was murdered, the eight-year-old had been withdrawn, sullen and depressed. He was thrilled at the change in her and he stroked her cheek. “It’s a happy day,” he said, and slowly, he glanced at his wife.

  She had been looking at him; now, she flung her gaze to the open book on her lap. Dot, an angelic toddler, blue-eyed and fair, clapped her hands and beamed. “Papa!” she shouted enthusiastically.

  His heart beat wildly in the cage that was his chest. Leigh Anne refused to look up. Was this her way now of avoiding him, even when they were in the same room? And as he leaned down to greet Dot, who grabbed some of his hair and tugged, he wondered if he should have let Leigh Anne stay at Bellevue the way she had wished. He inhaled baby and woman, powder and something floral and spicy, something soft and seductive.

  As he kissed Dot’s soft cheek, he could see Leigh Anne’s hands on the book, where they trembled. He began to straighten and then dared to feather Leigh Anne’s cheek with a kiss. “Hello. Welcome home.”

  When he was standing straight, she said, “Thank you.” She did not look him in the eye. “Girls? Let’s finish the story and then, Dot, it’s time for bed.”

  He shoved his hands helplessly into his pockets, feeling un- wanted. The fact that Leigh Anne did not ask him to sit down was glaring. He wanted desperately to join his family, but he lacked the courage to do so. His cheeks began to burn.