Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  Joel wrinkled up his nose. “We can skip potatoes. I thought we were having a loaf of bread.”

  “We are. But we are also having potatoes. I’m going to fry them up with the steaks, Joel. Fried potatoes are very, very good—I promise you.” Evan grinned, clearly aware that half their diet consisted of potatoes.

  Maggie wondered if he had any idea of how to make a meal—she doubted it. She shook herself free of her longing—and fears—and came forward. “Joel, take the boys outside and peel the potatoes.”

  Joel looked at her and then he looked at Evan. Slowly, he grinned. “Sure, Ma.”

  She was afraid he sensed the attraction between them. She did not want him to get his hopes up. She knew how fond of Evan he was. She would have to speak seriously with him tomorrow, and explain that their relationship was one of friendship—that it was not a romance. As Joel rounded up his brothers, Lizzie rushing to join them, she turned to look at Evan, her heart simply rioting. She thought she was flushing, too. “This is too much, Evan.”

  “It is hardly too much.” He watched the children trooping out of the flat. “Joel, make certain no one runs off. It will be dark soon,” he called.

  He would make such a wonderful father! She sobered. He was going to be a father—to his own child—not to her children.

  “You are spoiling us so.”

  “Good.” He faced her squarely. He was a tall, lean man, and when they were alone like this, she felt tiny and petite, although she was of average height for a woman.

  “The children had such a wonderful time today. I doubt they will ever forget it.”

  Very softly, he reached out and cupped her jaw. She trembled, almost swaying against him. “What I want to know is, did you have a wonderful time?”

  She slowly nodded. “Yes.”

  He stared. Finally, he said, “I want to do so much more, Maggie. You deserve so much more.”

  “You don’t have to do anything else,” she managed to say, trembling. He continued to cup her cheek. She pulled away, when she wanted to move closer to him.

  “Don’t,” he said, taking her hand. “Don’t run from me.”

  She inhaled. “This isn’t right.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a gentleman. I’m a seamstress.”

  “I don’t care.” His gaze widened. “You know me well enough by now to realize I would never toy with you.”

  She wet her lips, well aware that Evan had been quite a ladies’ man. “I think you would never deliberately pursue me with the wrong intentions.”

  He hesitated. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you are mistaking your interest in me, surely!” she cried, about to pull away. But his grasp on her hand tightened.

  “The only thing I know is that I have never met a woman as kind and generous as you. I have never known anyone with such a heart. And you are so beautiful,” he exclaimed roughly.

  She was a faded redhead, worn beyond her years, and she knew it. “This isn’t real,” she whispered. “It can’t be.”

  “Why not?” His eyes blazed. And the moment they did, Maggie knew what he meant to do and she gasped. But his arms were already around her and he was bending toward her. “Why the hell not, Maggie?”

  She so desperately wanted this moment to be real—to be based on love, not lust; on friendship, not gratitude. She knew she should protest, just as she knew she would not. His mouth gently covered hers. Maggie closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation of being in Evan’s arms, his mouth plying hers.

  She had never been in a man’s arms before like this. He was strong and powerful—and he was the kindest, most considerate man she had ever known. As she opened her mouth to take in more of his kiss, she suddenly realized that no haven could be as safe as that offered by Evan Cahill. And she realized that she more than loved him—she trusted him, too.

  “Are you all right?” he asked huskily, his mouth still on hers.

  She somehow nodded, tears arising, joy bursting through her heart. She lifted her face and kissed him wildly, passion erupting inside her.

  He cried out, his embrace tightening, and then he kissed her back as deeply. But she sensed his restraint. A moment later he broke the kiss, his chest rising and falling swiftly against hers.

  She didn’t want him to stop. But she buried her face against his silky cotton shirt. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” he said roughly. Then, “I am falling in love with you.”

  She froze. Had she really heard him say that?

  He made a harsh, self-deprecatory sound and stepped back so he could look down at her. She stared up at him, amazed. “I wish you could see yourself the way that I do,” he said.

  She was speechless. Vaguely, she heard one of the children racing up the stairs outside her apartment. It was Paddy, she thought. She knew the sound of each of her children’s footsteps.

  Evan smiled at her. Did she dare tell him that she was already in love with him?

  “Ma!” Paddy screamed.

  Maggie leaped out of Evan’s arms in alarm. “Paddy? What’s wrong?” she cried, fear engulfing her.

  “Lizzie’s gone! Some thug took her!”

  FRANCESCA HURRIED INTO the reception hall at police headquarters, hoping that Bragg hadn’t begun his interrogation of Daniel Moore without her. Because of the hour, she hadn’t seen any newsmen in the building across the street, where they often sipped coffee and conversed while waiting for a scoop. Everyone, she thought, was keeping summer hours. And that was just fine with her.

  She beelined for the elevator, thinking about Dawn, who clearly was in contact with Solange Marceaux. Her mind turning over all the facts and clues discovered thus far, she reached for the door to the cage. But before she could grasp the lever, someone caught her arm from behind. She tensed, turning, and came face-to-face with Arthur Kurland of the Sun.

  She sighed impatiently, while anxiety began. “And to think that I thought myself reprieved when I saw that your newsroom across the street was vacant.”

  Kurland grinned. “This is my lucky day. I was about to leave and catch a bite to eat. Ever been to Joe’s Fish House? It’s on Broadway. I’m happy to treat, Miss Cahill.”

  “I am very busy, Mr. Kurland,” she said coolly.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. What are you and the c’mish working on? Heard you went to see someone on Blackwell’s Island yesterday. Everyone is being so closemouthed.”

  Francesca stared coldly. Undoubtedly Kurland had bribed an officer and knew far more than he was letting on. “If we wished for you to know something, there would be a news conference. Good day.”

  She turned away, but he leaped between her and the elevator. “What happened at Gallery Moore? Why is Daniel Moore upstairs? An’ how come I heard this gossip that you missed your wedding because of Moore?” He grinned then. “I also heard that Calder Hart isn’t in a forgiving mood. Guess the wedding’s off, huh?”

  She stared unhappily at him. She wondered if any of Hart’s staff would dare to speak to a newsman.

  “I even heard you’re not a welcome guest over there,” he said.

  Sometimes, the truth was the best policy. This was not one of those times. “Then you have heard wrong. Now, if you will excuse me?”

  Kurland stepped aside and Francesca hurried into the elevator. She hit the button for the third floor, trying to appear indifferent and even nonchalant. As the elevator began its ascent, Kurland grinned at her. “You should really try Joe’s,” he said. “Dinner’s on me. Anytime.”

  Francesca ignored him, but she felt flushed. He was an annoying man. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake by insinuating that she and Hart remained closer than they actually were.

  A moment later she stepped out of the cage and saw Bragg standing in the corridor, speaking with Chief Farr. Her tension was instantaneous. She had no reason to suspect Farr of any foul play, even if he had been investigating the theft of her portrait when the police had
not known about it. But it still bothered her that he had been on the scene with his men before she and Bragg had arrived at the gallery Saturday night. Once again, she couldn’t help thinking that he was such a big, striking man.

  Then she shook herself free of any suspicion. She believed that the thief had removed the portrait shortly after her escape from the gallery—before she had seen Bragg and revealed all that had happened.

  Both men fell silent as she approached. Farr nodded politely. Francesca tried not to bristle and managed a smile in return. She was very glad that Rose was not seeing this man as a client. “Is Mr. Moore here?”

  “He is in the conference room. Mrs. Moore is in my office,” Bragg said.

  Francesca was surprised that Moore’s wife had been brought downtown, but Farr said, “She insisted on coming with him.”

  Francesca hesitated. She wished a word with Bragg alone. He glanced at the chief and said, “We’ll be right in, Chief.”

  Farr grunted and walked off toward the conference room, which was just down the hall. “Well?” Bragg asked.

  “Did Marsha Moore recognize the chief?” she asked.

  “No, Francesca, she did not even blink upon first seeing him.”

  She turned to him. Farr was now out of sight. “Marsha Moore said that a big, dark man was loitering outside their flat that night, waiting for Daniel. She also saw him at the gallery a few days before. Farr isn’t dark, although he is big. But it was not Farr, as Marsha did not recognize him. However, Bill Randall is tall and he is dark.”

  “You are slipping,” Bragg said, smiling warmly now. “She described the loiterer as big and dangerous.”

  She had slipped. “It wasn’t Farr. But I don’t trust him at all. I don’t like his involvement in this case.”

  “Neither do I, but it is too late to get him off the case. Let’s hope that Randall is the one who paid off Moore to use his gallery on Saturday, and let’s assume he returned for the stolen portrait after you escaped.” He took her arm, lowering his voice. “There has been no activity at the Randall home this afternoon, Francesca. I have asked the detail that is watching the house to gather up the family photographs.”

  That was an excellent idea, she thought. “We can show his photograph to Mrs. Moore.”

  “Yes, we can.”

  How she hoped there would be a positive identification! Then Francesca quickly told him about her conversation with Dawn. Bragg said, “Finding Marceaux might be moot, Francesca. Hopefully, Randall is our man and we will soon apprehend him. I look forward to receiving the visitors’ logs from Warden Coakley.”

  “So do I,” Francesca said.

  Bragg guided her to the conference room door, which was ajar, but paused once more outside it. “There is news. It isn’t good. I just got a wire from the warden of the Blackwell’s Island Asylum. Mary wasn’t transferred there.”

  Francesca halted in her tracks. Mary had escaped. “So Mary vanished from Bellevue Hospital into thin air?”

  “I doubt she vanished. And I think we both know who helped her escape.”

  They stared at each other. Mary could not be their thief. She had been in custody in April, when the portrait was stolen. “If only we knew when she escaped,” Francesca said in a whisper.

  And Bragg, of course, was reading her mind. “Mary is a small woman, but I believe she could have taken that portrait down from the wall with sheer adrenaline.”

  If Bill Randall had stolen it, he had gained an accomplice, but how recently? Francesca wondered. Bill would have stolen the portrait from Sarah’s studio, acting alone. But had Mary helped him lock Francesca in the gallery and retrieve the portrait on Saturday? She was chilled. Mary was deranged and that made her even more frightening than her brother.

  Bragg gestured. Hating the idea that Mary was on the loose, Francesca stepped into the conference room.

  A long table dominated it. Inside, the light was pale and yellow. Daniel Moore was clad as if for a holiday in a darker sack coat and pale trousers. He was seated as they walked in, Farr standing nearby, Inspector Newman seated across from him. Newman, a rotund man, was doodling on a notepad. A uniformed officer stood by the door in case he might think to escape. Moore leaped to his feet.

  Francesca smiled. “Hello, Mr. Moore.”

  “I am outraged,” he said. “I have done nothing wrong!”

  Bragg walked over to him and pushed him back into his seat. “Really? Lying to the police—even mere obfuscation—is a felony, sir.”

  Moore blanched. “I haven’t lied!”

  “Not only do we have your financial records, we have witnesses who saw you at the gallery last Saturday morning. Yet you told me on Saturday night that you had not been to the gallery since you closed it on Friday for summer hours,” Bragg said.

  “You have witnesses?” Moore was incredulous.

  Francesca knew that the children’s testimony would never hold up in a court of law, but the woman’s surely would. “Apparently you were not alone, Mr. Moore. Would you mind explaining this discrepancy?”

  Moore stood again. “Very well. I went to my gallery that morning, but only because there was a leak in the bathroom faucet! A plumber was with me. That is not a crime!”

  Francesca glanced at Bragg, who said, “And who is this plumber, Moore? Obviously he will have to corroborate your story.”

  “My story? But I have done nothing wrong. Someone broke into my gallery and imprisoned Miss Cahill there. I had nothing to do with her abduction or the stolen portrait!”

  Francesca glanced at Farr. He smiled at her. She turned quickly away. “Would you mind explaining why a deposit of one thousand dollars was made last Thursday into your East River Savings Bank account?”

  He gasped. “That was from the sale of a painting!”

  Francesca realized that was an entirely credible answer. Bragg said, “Then you will show us the receipt?”

  Moore said, “Of course.”

  Bragg nodded at Newman, who lumbered to his feet. “Escort Mr. Moore to his gallery, please. Bring back his receipts—all of them.”

  Farr’s eyes glittered.

  Francesca turned. “Don’t we need a warrant?”

  “I will arrange for one immediately,” Bragg said.

  “And what about my wife?” Moore asked, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

  “You can wait for her in the lobby,” Bragg said.

  Moore cried out. “What do you want with Marsha?”

  “We have a few questions for her, that is all,” Francesca said. He was as nervous as a very guilty man.

  She preceded Bragg from the conference room. Before opening the door to his office, she said, “Do you really think to get a warrant after the fact?”

  He smiled. “There won’t be any receipts, Francesca. I feel certain that he was paid off by Randall, or whoever originally stole that painting, for the use of his gallery. I don’t believe him a thief, just an accessory to the theft and your abduction. I can smell the guilt on him.”

  “I happen to think you are right,” she said.

  He reached past her to open the door. It did not occur to her to move out of his way, and his arm brushed her. Instead of stepping back, she smiled at him. He smiled back, then pushed open the door for her. About to walk past him and inside, Francesca hesitated.

  Farr was coming down the hall. If he had noticed anything, he gave no sign. He stared at the floor as he passed them.

  She felt as if they had been caught in a compromising position. Of course, Bragg had only opened the door for her. However, they were so obviously close. Neither one stood on propriety.

  “Are you all right?” Bragg asked, his gaze searching.

  She met his warm amber regard. She wanted to tell him that she was becoming worried because she hadn’t spoken with Hart since last night. “I am fine.” She cleared her throat and walked into his office. He followed, closing the door behind them.

  Marsha Moore was sitting before his desk, clutchin
g a handkerchief. Her eyes were red from crying.

  She leaped up. “He is a good man, really.”

  “What aren’t you telling us?” Francesca asked in her kindest manner. She clasped the woman’s shoulder.

  “He hasn’t done anything wrong!”

  “Mr. Moore is allowed to lease out his space to whomever he chooses, Mrs. Moore, so you are right about that. It is also true that he is not responsible for the fact that someone lured me to his gallery and trapped me inside.”

  “Then why are we here?” she cried fearfully.

  “If he knew what was about to happen and was paid for his participation, then he is an accessory to my abduction,” Francesca said, rather exaggerating the facts. A good defense attorney would argue that she hadn’t actually been abducted.

  “And he might even be accused of fencing stolen goods,” Bragg said. They both knew that mere knowledge of a crime was not a criminal offense.

  “Of course he didn’t know that you were locked up, and he would never deal in stolen paintings!” she cried, ghastly white. “We already have so many problems. Dear Lord, we hardly need any more!”

  “Then why are you so frightened?” Francesca asked.

  “We are trying so hard to make ends meet. It isn’t easy these days. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, Miss Cahill?”

  “Who approached your husband and asked to lease the gallery for a single day?” Bragg asked firmly.

  She looked frantically at him. “I don’t know! He doesn’t tell me anything. He keeps me in the dark, he does. It wasn’t always that way.” She covered her face with her hands and started to cry.

  Francesca felt sorry for her. “Mrs. Moore, I am certain that your husband had no idea what would happen when he leased out his space. I am also convinced that he is being threatened not to reveal the name of the man who paid him to use his gallery on Saturday. If he will simply tell us the truth, there will not be any charges. I will make certain of it.”

  Marsha stared tearfully at her now.

  Bragg came up to them. “I won’t press charges, Mrs. Moore, nor will the D.A., if your husband is an innocent victim of this thief, as Miss Cahill is.”