by Brenda Joyce
“Did you find her?” Leigh Anne asked. She hadn’t decided if she should be thrilled or dismayed that Francesca and Hart hadn’t married. Just a few months ago, Rick had been in love with her.
Rick straightened, but as he spoke, his gaze went to her brandy glass. “No. I am very worried. Her disappearance is now an official police matter.” He turned to the nanny. “Could you take the girls upstairs and get them ready for bed?”
Katie stood, looking pleadingly at Leigh Anne. Dot cried, “Bed story!” Mrs. Flowers took her out of the high chair and set her down on the floor.
“I will be up in a moment or two,” Leigh Anne promised.
Bragg didn’t move until the two girls and their nanny had left. She slowly looked at him as he sat down at the table, across from her. “I cannot imagine what could have happened to keep her away from her own wedding. She seemed so happy the last time I saw her. Do you think there is foul play?”
“Yes, I do. The one thing I am sure of is that Francesca did not suddenly decide to jilt Calder.” He spoke without emotion. She knew he hated the idea of Francesca marrying Hart. But if he was pleased by this sudden turn of events, she could not tell. “Peter, may I have a scotch, please?”
The Swede nodded and left the dining room.
She looked at her glass, willing herself to have patience. “Chief Farr called. He was looking for you.”
“I guess he has heard the news,” Rick said grimly.
She wasn’t sure what his odd tone meant. “He already knew that Francesca is missing. He said something about how there must have been a commotion today.”
Rick looked at her. “What did he say, exactly?”
She started, and finally pulled her drink toward her. “He made a comment about how there must have been a commotion at the church when the bride did not show up. I said it was quite chaotic.”
Peter returned and handed Rick a scotch. He took a sip. “Farr doesn’t like her.”
Leigh Anne finished her brandy. “Surely he doesn’t wish her ill, Rick.”
Rick grimaced, studying his drink. “I imagine he is pleased that something has befallen her.”
“That is a terrible thing to say.” He was very concerned, she realized. Carefully, she said, “I hope you are wrong and Francesca had an extreme case of bridal jitters. I hope she is not in jeopardy somewhere.”
He stood up abruptly. “I have to call Farr.”
“Rick, do not worry about me. I am going to read to the girls and put them to bed. Go find Francesca.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Are you certain you do not mind?” His gaze strayed to the empty glass on the dining table in front of her.
“I have always liked her.” That much was true. Francesca was a pleasant, kind and even admirable woman. “I am worried about her, too.”
“Thank you,” he said, walking out.
She leaned back in her chair, beyond relief, aware that she was already forgotten. He wouldn’t bother her again that night, and after the girls were asleep, she could dose herself thoroughly with brandy and laudanum.
FRANCESCA HAD SPENT the entire carriage ride filling Joel in on every detail of that day. Joel, of course, already knew that her portrait had been stolen. Two months ago, when she, Hart and Bragg had decided to leave the police out of the investigation—no one wanted anyone to know about the portrait—Joel had wanted to know why everyone was so upset. She had told him that the painting was somewhat compromising.
He hadn’t known what the word meant. Francesca had decided not to tell him the absolute truth. She had merely said that she had posed in a manner that society would frown upon. Joel hadn’t cared after that. She knew he found the mores of society confusing, irrelevant and at times, just plain stupid, to use his own words.
As No. 11 Madison Square came into view, Francesca felt her heart lurch. The square was deserted at that hour, but the park was beautifully lit from the streetlamps and the moonlight. Bragg’s house was a narrow Victorian, on a block filled with similar redbrick homes, just a few doors down from Twenty-third Street. Francesca thought about the time they had walked from his house to Broadway to gaze up at the newly constructed Flatiron Building, which the city’s newsmen were calling a “skyscraper.” The towering, triangular building remained a stunning testament to the brilliance of mankind.
“He is here,” she said, noticing his Daimler parked outside the small carriage house adjacent to the Bragg residence. She paid the driver as she and Joel swiftly stepped down to the sidewalk. Lights were on downstairs and upstairs.
She had regained a great deal of her composure in the past thirty minutes. Still, she had been badly hurt. A part of her wanted to rush into Bragg’s arms, seeking comfort. But another, more mature part of her knew to keep the current state of discord between her and Hart private.
As the cab left, they started up the brick path, toward the house. Francesca knocked on the door, eager to tell Bragg everything that had happened to her.
The door was flung wide open.
Bragg took her arm. “I knew it was you. Are you hurt?”
She came inside, Joel following, so much relief flooding her. Some of her resolve to remain strong and independent crumbled. She smiled tightly. “I have had an awful day.”
“I can see that,” he said, suddenly releasing her.
In that moment, she knew he wanted to hold her, but he made no move to do so. She did not know if she was relieved or disappointed. Joel broke the silence. “What’s wrong with you two? We have a case to solve! Miz Cahill was locked up—someone tried to stop her from marrying Mr. Hart!”
Francesca bit her lip. “Actually, Joel, someone did stop me from marrying Hart.” She managed to tear her gaze from Bragg’s. Where was Leigh Anne?
“What happened? Why are there scratches and cuts on your face and hands?” He took her arm and guided her into his study, a small dark room with a desk and two chairs. The fireplace was unlit. Joel followed them to the door, but lingered in the hallway.
She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder, but his wife was not in the parlor at the end of the hall, although the door was open, the lights on. “Am I intruding?”
“Of course not!” he cried. “Everyone is worried about you!”
She tensed. Hart wasn’t worried, not at all. Her heart broke all over again, but she decided to ignore it. “I received this by hand this morning, shortly after you left,” Francesca said, taking the envelope marked Urgent out of her purse. She handed it to him, the invitation inside.
He quickly read it and paled. “The portrait?”
She nodded, glad to be back on the firm ground of the investigation now. “When I got there, the gallery was closed for summer hours but unlocked. I went in and I saw the portrait. It is nailed to one wall. I felt that I was not alone and I began to explore. Perhaps a half hour later, someone locked me in from outside.”
Bragg made a harsh sound—she knew he was angry. “Go on.”
She wet her lips. “I called for help, but no one heard me. Then I tried to climb out a very small window in the back office. I had to break the pane. That is how I got cut on my face.”
He took her hands in his, not looking down. “How did you hurt your hands?”
“Clawing the wall as I tried to get up to that window.”
His expression, already tight, hardened even more.
She couldn’t help comparing his reactions to Hart’s. Had Calder even noticed her cuts and scratches? “Eventually two children heard me. Their father and a roundsman let me out.”
For one more moment he held her hands, and she had the impression that all would be right in the world again. As she thought that, she recalled Hart’s cold black gaze, his deliberate cruelty and his words “It is over.” She flinched. It could not be over.
Bragg released her, picking up the receiver from the telephone on his desk. Shockingly, he actually had two phones in his house—the other was upstairs in his bedroom. That was truly scandalous, but he
claimed it was practical. “It’s Bragg. I want Gallery Moore, at No. 69 Waverly Place, cordoned off as the scene of an attempted abduction. No one is to get in or get out, and that includes Moore, the gallery owner. It also includes the police. Let me be clear. You are to cordon off the gallery—I repeat, no one is to go inside. I will be there in thirty minutes.” He listened for another moment and hung up. Then he faced her. “You do not have to come downtown, Francesca. I can manage the case now.”
Her eyes widened. “Of course I am coming with you!”
He smiled then. “Somehow, I thought you might say that.”
She smiled back at him. Very shortly, the gallery would be secured by his men, and no one would be able to get inside to view her portrait. They had to get downtown, but there was less urgency now. She touched his arm briefly. “Have I ruined your evening?”
“No.”
His tone was so hard and decisive that she started. Was something wrong? But he then added more quietly, “We agreed to investigate the theft of your portrait privately, but after the events of this day, I do not see how I cannot use the resources at my disposal.”
She hesitated. “Hart did not make any headway with his investigators.”
“No, he did not—and they visited every single gallery in Manhattan and Brooklyn. No one had seen or heard of your portrait.” He said grimly, “Obviously no one can ever see that painting. Let us hope that tonight we recover it, once and for all.”
She hugged herself. Hopefully they would recover the portrait within the hour, but that would still leave the thief at large. Why hadn’t she gotten more involved? Of course, when the portrait had vanished on April 27 from Sarah’s studio, she had still been trying to find the deadly Slasher before he murdered another innocent woman. Then Daisy Jones had been murdered. When Hart had immediately become the prime suspect, her focus had been doing everything possible to clear him. Fortunately, it had taken only four days to solve that case. Marion Gillespie had confessed to the murder of her own daughter on June 6.
“What’s wrong?” Bragg asked softly.
“I was just thinking that I wish I had been more involved. But hindsight is useless.”
“It is very useless,” he agreed. “I understand why Hart chose to thoroughly comb through the city’s art world. I expected him to turn up something. But I never expected this, and I am as much to blame as anyone for today’s events.” He reached for the phone. “Has anyone told your parents that you are safe and sound?”
“You are not to blame!” When he did not respond to that, she knew he did not agree. “Rick,” she began.
“Do Julia and Andrew know that you are all right?” he repeated.
“Alfred sent word.” She prayed that he would not ask her if she had seen Hart.
He stared, then said, “Still, I feel obligated to call Andrew.”
She nodded. “That is fine. I think they would like to be reassured by you, but I cannot face my mother right now.”
He gave her an odd look. “Operator, please connect me to Andrew Cahill’s home.” He laid his hand over the mouthpiece. “Do you wish to speak to your father?”
“Not quite yet. Can you tell them I am fine, that there was some trouble, and I have fallen asleep in your guest room?” she tried.
“Francesca,” he objected.
“I am going downtown with you. I have hours to come up with a plausible reason for having missed my own wedding,” she said rather defensively.
He sighed. “Hello, Andrew. I have very good news. I am with Francesca, who has suffered a very trying day.… I am afraid she was lured away from your house deliberately, but she is now fine.… Yes, someone wished to interfere with the wedding.… She has fallen asleep on my sofa.… Yes…I will personally get her home in the next few hours. Good night.” He hung up, looking at her.
“I have made you a partner in crime. I am sorry.”
“Think nothing of it.” Then he softened. “It is hardly the first time, is it? I do not mind telling a white lie for you—and sometimes I enjoy being a partner in crime with you.”
She bit her lip, almost thrilling. “It is partly the truth.”
He said bluntly, “Have you seen Calder yet?”
She flushed, filled with tension instantly. “Yes. Are you ready to go downtown?”
His gaze was as piercing as a hawk’s. She waited, refusing to discuss Hart now. He finally nodded at the door. She started out of the study and he followed, calling for Joel. She said, “Who do you think would want me to miss my wed ding?”
Joel came downstairs, apparently having been visiting with the two girls. As they left the house, Joel leading the way, Bragg said, “Hart has enemies, Francesca—hundreds of them, in fact. We agreed two months ago that trying to investigate a list of his enemies was impossible.”
“So this thief might want to strike at Calder, not me.” They approached the driveway behind the carriage house where Bragg’s Daimler was parked.
“It would hardly surprise me.” Anger laced his tone. Giving her a dark look, he went to the motorcar and began cranking the engine.
She tensed, watching him. “You can’t blame Hart for what happened today—just as you cannot blame yourself. I have made enemies, as well.”
“Yes, you have, and Hart and I have actually considered the possibility that someone has decided to seek vengeance against you by stealing the portrait.” The engine roared to life and he straightened. He went around to the passenger side and opened her door. Francesca waited for Joel to scramble into the tiny backseat before she got in. As he closed the door, he said, “We have discussed this investigation several times, Francesca.”
Her mind raced as he went around to his side of the car and got in. Hart had never mentioned sitting down with Rick to discuss the stolen portrait. “Bragg, I have already made a mental list of the people who might wish for revenge against me. Gordino, Bill Randall, Mary and Henrietta Randall, and Solange Marceaux are the only culprits I can truly think of.”
He had put the car in Reverse. He paused and looked at her. She wasn’t quite certain what that look meant. “Gordino was incarcerated for running a con in early April. He won’t be out on the street till August.”
Gordino was a vicious thug whom she had run into several times during her first investigation. “Good. He isn’t smart enough to have managed this theft, anyway.”
Bragg smiled slightly, now backing the Daimler slowly out of the driveway and onto the still-deserted street. He shifted into Drive. “I agree.”
She thought then about Bill Randall—Hart’s half brother. They did not really know each other, but they hated one another. Bill had not been able to abide the discovery that his father had sired a son out of wedlock. Hart despised his half sibling as well—a natural enough response, she supposed, to his father’s and brother’s rejection of him. But there was more to Bill’s antipathy. She shivered. “Bill Randall certainly hates me for discovering that his sister murdered their father.” She added grimly, “He also hates Hart.”
“Bill turned state’s evidence on his sister, Francesca.”
She already knew that. Bragg was now cruising down Twenty-third Street toward Broadway, where hansoms, drays and an electric trolley were visible. Mary Randall had confessed to murdering Paul Randall, but only after Francesca had nearly exposed her crime. Bill had abducted Francesca to prevent her from going to the police with the facts of the case. Both brother and sister were very dangerous.
Bragg said, “Bill Randall got off scot-free in exchange for his testimony. Mary is at Bellevue. Her lawyers successfully pleaded an insanity defense. She will be locked up for many, many years. However, Bill has an alibi for Saturday night—he was in his dormitory room at the university with both his roommates—and your portrait was taken on Sunday afternoon. It is virtually impossible that he could have arrived in the city the next morning in order to steal the painting. The earliest train from Philadelphia arrived at noon.”
Bill was instantly ta
ken off Francesca’s list of suspects. No one could arrive at Grand Central Station at noon and make it to the Channing home uptown to steal the painting in less than an hour. Francesca was sorely disappointed. As Bragg turned left onto Fifth Avenue, she asked, “And Henrietta Randall?”
“Their mother was sentenced to one year for her attempt to cover up her daughter’s crimes. She remains imprisoned on Blackwell’s Island.”
“Well, that rules the Randalls out.”
“I believe so. However, Solange Marceaux vanished into thin air when we raided her brothel during the investigation into Murphy’s child-prostitution ring.”
She hadn’t thought about the icy blonde madam in months. Francesca had briefly posed as a prostitute in order to get into her establishment. Solange had been furious with the deception—she had even ordered Francesca killed. “She still hasn’t been found?” Her nape tingled now. Solange Marceaux was a strong, clever and dangerous woman.
“I’m afraid not,” Bragg said, carefully passing the electric trolley, which was devoid of passengers at that hour. The conductor waved at them. “We will find her eventually. I am sure she has set up another brothel somewhere in the city.”
Francesca realized they were passing Fourteenth Street, a major crosstown thoroughfare. They would be at the gallery within moments. “Solange was vicious and vengeful, Bragg. She is a truly formidable opponent. But if she is back in business, I cannot imagine her jeopardizing her profits and her liberty by seeking petty revenge against me.”
“And just how petty is such revenge? If that portrait is publicly displayed, you will never be welcome in polite society again.”
He was right. She glanced at him, trembling. His expression was odd.
“You have given me several long looks tonight. Is something wrong?”
