by Brenda Joyce
Sarah’s hands were smudged with charcoal. There was a smudge on her chin as well, and her shirtwaist was half tucked in and half pulled out of her slim navy blue skirt. Her gaze was wide. “I hope everyone is all right. You are so distraught!” She turned. “Would you please ask my cousin to come downstairs, Barnes?”
When the manservant had started up the stairs, she looked at him. “Do you wish for a drink? What has happened?”
He exploded. “Someone has kidnapped Lizzie Kennedy!”
Sarah stiffened. “You mean Maggie Kennedy’s little girl?”
When he nodded and cursed, she cried, “But why?”
He looked at Sarah and realized that she actually cared. “God only knows,” he began, “but Maggie is beside herself.” As he spoke, he heard Bartolla’s footsteps on the stairs.
Sarah took his hand. “I am sorry, Evan,” she said, meaning it.
For one moment, he looked into her eyes, and was ashamed that he had judged her so swiftly and unfairly. Then he pulled free and turned.
Bartolla was gliding down the stairs in a green silk dressing gown, her long red hair down. Crystals sparkled on her black velvet slippers as the robe parted over her ankles. He could tell she wore little or nothing beneath the robe and thought she had been expecting him. “I am afraid you have caught me in a state of dishabille.” She smiled, clearly unashamed. “I am leaving for the Catskills tomorrow, and I have stayed in tonight to finish my packing.” She reached him and kissed his cheek.
He jerked away, thinking she still did not look pregnant. Sarah said, “Bartolla, we would have waited for you to change into something more befitting a caller.” But her tone was calm, not shocked.
“Oh, please. You know as well as I do that Evan was my lover until very recently. Why stand on formality when he has seen me in my robe many times?” She peered more closely at him. “Are you upset, darling? Shall we all share a drink?” She stroked his cheek.
He caught her wrist far too tightly for the gesture to be pleasant. She went still as he said, “Lizzie has been abducted, Bartolla.”
Her eyes widened. “Who?”
He jerked on her as Sarah made a sound of protest. “Don’t play games now! Lizzie Kennedy has been abducted. Are you involved?”
Bartolla gasped and jerked her wrist free. “How dare you?” she said. “What is wrong with you? You must be speaking of one of those brats that belong to your seamstress. How dare you accuse me of…involvement.”
A terrible silence fell. Sarah stepped forward as Evan scrutinized his former mistress, trying to decide if she knew anything at all. “Evan, what are you saying? Surely you do not think Bartolla knows something about that poor child?”
He stared at his ex-mistress and she stared back. Her eyes gleamed with amusement—and he did not know what to think. She did not care about the child, much less Maggie. Of course not. Bartolla only cared about herself. “Did you take Lizzie? Do you know where she is?”
Bartolla’s brows lifted and she laughed. “My God, have you lost your wits? Are you accusing me of abducting that child? Why on earth would I do such a thing?” She laughed again. “Dear God, where would I even put a child?”
He tried desperately to read her mind. Sarah said, “Evan, Bartolla is hardly a criminal. She would never abduct someone’s child!”
But she was a fortune-hunting bitch and a very angry woman. She hated Maggie.
Bartolla walked over to him and clasped his cheek. “Darling, I am many things, but I would never hurt a small child. I especially wouldn’t hurt a child you are fond of… I remain in love with you.”
He drew back. “I pray you are telling me the truth. Because if you are behind this, Bartolla, you will be very, very sorry.”
Bartolla was mildly amused. She lowered her voice. “Are you threatening me? What will you do—leave me and our child out on the streets, to beg and to starve?”
He could barely breathe. He had been so certain that Bartolla had abducted Lizzie. “If you are behind this, God help me, you will pay.”
Bartolla stopped smiling.
And that was when Evan heard the doorbell ring behind them.
BRAGG’S MOTORCAR WAS idling. They had just arrived at the gothic Channing mansion. The downstairs lights remained on, but otherwise, the grounds were eerily dark. Only two gas lamps graced the street in front of the house. Francesca and Bragg made no move to get out of the car. Instead, they stared at one another.
The drive uptown had taken twenty minutes, and she had just told him about her conversation with Rose that afternoon.
“So Rose does not recall discussing your portrait with the chief,” Bragg finally said, sighing.
“The more I think about it, the more I find it likely that she lashed out at me and Hart by doing so,” Francesca said. “That might explain Farr’s knowledge of the theft. Once she told him about my portrait, he probably started snooping about the Channing home. But I just can’t come to grips with Rose being our thief. What would she have to gain by coming to see me today and making a partial confession as she just did? And we don’t even know if she knows that it’s a nude portrait. I don’t know how she would have ever found that out.”
“The thief is toying with you, remember? If this were about money, we would have the portrait in our possession,” Bragg said.
“If Rose stole the portrait and paid Moore to gain the use of his gallery, then she hates me as much as she hates Hart.” How disturbing that notion was!
Bragg reached across the space between them and covered her lightly clad shoulder with his large, gloved hand. “As with all mysteries, there won’t be any clear answers, not until the case is solved.”
His touch always brought back memories she preferred to avoid. “It is so late,” she finally said, shifting her body so his hand fell from her shoulder. “It must be half past nine at least—I doubt you will be home until midnight.”
His stare remained steady. “I doubt it is that late. But you are probably right.”
“Bragg, avoiding your wife will hardly solve matters.”
“Are you now an expert on domestic relationships?” He spoke quietly, without censure, but his words hurt.
“Obviously not. We always discuss the case and my problems, but I remain worried about you.”
His expression softened. “Don’t you have enough on your plate now, with my damn brother?”
“You are changing the subject,” she said flatly. She did not want to think about Hart now, but she did. Where was he, at that hour, while they were at Sarah’s?
His mouth curled. “Yes, I am.”
“We are only allowed to discuss my problems?”
He hesitated. “I have a confession to make. I dread going home, Francesca.”
She was shocked.
He pulled off his gloves and opened his door, alighting from the roadster. Francesca did not move. “Surely you do not dread being with Leigh Anne!”
He walked around the front of the automobile and opened her door for her. She stared, still stunned, as he pulled her to her feet. “Hopefully Evan is still here, as I wish a word with him as well as with Bartolla.”
She came to her senses. As they started up the walk, she said, “May I call on Leigh Anne tomorrow?”
“Absolutely not.”
She stumbled and he caught her arm, steadying her. “Are you in jest?”
“I am deadly serious, Francesca, I know your intentions are as good as gold, but sometimes your desire to help backfires.” They paused at the front door and he rang the doorbell.
“I am forbidden from calling on your wife?” she gasped.
He turned to face her, very seriously. “I would hardly forbid you anything. But, Francesca, I am asking you not to interfere in whatever is left of my private life. Please,” he added.
Her heart broke for him. She had heard the desperation in his tone and it was shocking. Rick Bragg was the calmest and most rational man she knew. Yet he was undone by his marital problems no
w. She had to help.
To her surprise, Sarah opened the front door. Instantly, Francesca saw that she was agitated. She looked into the grand entrance hall, where Evan and Bartolla stood. Her brother was grim, but Bartolla seemed very amused. Suddenly Francesca didn’t know why she had ever liked the other woman.
“Thank God, the police are here,” Evan said harshly. He approached them with long strides. “Have you found Lizzie?”
“I am sorry, Evan, we have not,” Bragg said soberly.
Anguish distorted his features. “Have you seen Maggie? How is she?”
Francesca put her arm around him. “She is managing. She needs you.”
More anguish flickered. “I know. I wanted to speak with Bartolla, Fran. I wanted to make certain she is not behind this.”
Francesca glanced at Bragg, who nodded. She pulled him aside, murmuring, “Excuse us.” They paused before the open doors of a small salon as Bragg began speaking to Bartolla and Sarah. “She is very distraught, of course. Bragg and I were at the scene, covering every possible angle and searching for clues.”
“What did you find?” he cried.
“Thus far, not very much, although we have three witnesses to the abduction.” Evan ran his hand through his hair, his expression ravaged. He loves Maggie so much, Francesca thought. It was terribly obvious. “Evan, I must ask. Could this be about the remainder of your gaming debts?”
His eyes widened. “My God, I hope not!”
“Evan, no one would take Lizzie in the hope of gaining a ransom from Maggie. But the abduction might have been made to gain a ransom from you.”
“I had already wondered if I would be approached for a ransom,” he said tersely. “But if this is about my debts, then they will threaten to hurt Lizzie!”
She took his arm. “We don’t know that this is about your gambling.”
He trembled. “If it is, we are over.”
It was serious, Francesca thought, no longer surprised. Her rakehell brother had met his match in a simple, honest and hardworking Irishwoman. It crossed her mind that he would be in for a terrible battle with Julia one day. She dismissed the thought for now. “Evan, I must ask. Are you gambling again?”
He was horrified. “No. There was one relapse, Fran, just after Bartolla told me she was having my child, when I realized—” He stopped.
She knew what he had meant to say and she touched his arm. “When you realized she would be in your life, al ways?”
He nodded. “Clearly, my involvement with her was another mistake.”
“Don’t do this to yourself now. And I still wonder at the convenience of her pregnancy.” She shrugged.
“Sometimes I wonder, as well. And if she is pregnant, I wonder if I am the father.” He lowered his tone, not that they could be overheard.
“There is more,” Francesca said. “Whoever is behind this, he or she might think to send me a ransom note.”
“You?” His eyes widened.
“Maggie and I are friends. She was a guest at my failed wedding.” She inhaled. “You might as well know.” She lowered her voice now, too. “I am embroiled right now in a case where I am the victim.”
Evan started. “What? I know you were supposedly lured off from your wedding to help some poor soul in need, but this is the first I have heard of anything else. Please, do not tell me that you are in trouble!”
Francesca didn’t hesitate. She knew she could trust her brother. “The portrait stolen from Sarah’s studio was a nude, Evan.” He simply stared in confusion, so she said, “I posed nude for the portrait. On my wedding day, I received an odd invitation to preview Sarah’s works. I instantly knew that my portrait had surfaced.”
He began to turn red. “You did what? Have you lost your mind? My God, where is the portrait now?”
“We have been racing time to find the painting before it is ever publicly displayed. It was at the gallery where I was invited, but when Bragg and I returned to retrieve it later Saturday night, it was gone.”
Her brother’s flush deepened. “Did Calder ask you to do this? If so, your fiancé is a madman. Your reputation hangs by a thread, Fran!”
She took his arm. “Apparently we both like to live dangerously.”
At her reference to his gambling obsession, he became quiet. “Touché. I will not judge either of you.”
“The point I am making is that someone wishes to hurt me—I was prevented from attending my own wedding. That person might even wish to destroy me. I cannot rule out the possibility that Lizzie’s abduction is just another cruel twist in a sadist’s game.”
He blanched. “What am I to tell Maggie?”
“Nothing, at least for now. But if Lizzie’s abduction is related to either one of us, there is a strong chance that we will be asked for a ransom, and right now, that would be good news.”
Evan stared thoughtfully at her. She finally said, “And that brings us to a third possible motive—romantic revenge.”
He tensed visibly. “Bartolla called on Maggie two weeks ago. She explicitly threatened the children if Maggie did not stay away from me.”
“Maggie already told us. And Bartolla strikes me as a very vindictive woman. What did she say to you?”
“She claims she would never do such a thing.” He spoke with heated anger. “She is very vindictive, Fran, and she is furious that I am seeing Maggie and that our wedding is off.”
Francesca glanced across the room. Bragg and Bartolla were still speaking, and she turned her gaze back to her brother. “I don’t trust her,” she said, “but abducting a child is beyond vengeful—it is criminal and sociopathic.”
He folded his arms, glaring at his ex-mistress. “She is leaving for the Catskills tomorrow.”
“I doubt that,” Francesca said quickly. She started toward the countess and Bragg. “Am I intruding?” She was deliberately polite.
Bragg smiled at her. “We are done and it is late.”
Did he mean to imply that he had had a change of heart and would go home to his wife and family? She certainly hoped so. She managed to smile at Bartolla. “I hear you are leaving for vacation tomorrow. Where are you off to?” she asked pleasantly.
“I have been invited to stay with friends at a hotel in the Catskills,” the countess said.
“I beg your pardon,” Bragg interrupted, as Francesca had known he would. “I am sorry, Bartolla, but you will have to delay your departure.”
She was shocked speechless.
“Until Lizzie Kennedy is returned, you will have to remain in town.”
Bartolla’s eyes flashed. “You can’t forbid my leaving!”
“I most certainly can. And I have no issue with approaching Judge Harris for a court order to that effect, Countess.” He was at his most authoritative now. “Do not leave the city, and do not change your residence until otherwise notified. This is an official police matter, and I will undoubtedly have more questions for you.”
Bartolla flushed with fury. She turned her glare upon Evan. “You did this, didn’t you? First you think to destroy our future—my future—and now to deny me my freedom.”
Evan was taken aback. Sarah stepped between them, taking Bartolla’s arm. “Bartolla, stop. This is serious. Don’t say another word.”
Bartolla breathed hard as Bragg said, “Sarah is right. You might need a lawyer, Countess.” He smiled at Francesca. “Shall we? Evan, I can give you a ride, as well. Good night, ladies.”
Sarah murmured, “Good night.” She was ashen. Bartolla did not speak, her gaze shooting daggers at them.
They started for the door, Evan behind them. It wasn’t until they were outside and walking toward the Daimler that Francesca spoke. “What do you think?”
“I think she is capable of committing many dastardly deeds, but I am not sure she is foolish enough to have committed this abduction,” he said.
Francesca glanced back at her brother, but he was clearly lost in thought. “I think she might have lost all judgment when she lost my brot
her to Maggie.”
“That is a good point,” he said quietly, pausing by his car.
She took his hand. “You shocked me earlier.”
He instantly understood. “Don’t.”
“Please, call it a night.”
His regard wandered over her face. “I cannot. Lizzie is missing. So is your portrait.”
“So, you will avoid her now? And what will that solve? Speak to her, Rick, the way you speak to me, with candor and honesty.”
Sorrow filled his eyes. “We have never been able to communicate, Francesca. Not the way that you and I do.” He removed his hand from hers.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wednesday, July 2, 1902
9:00 a.m.
SHE WAS IN Hart’s arms, and his smile was filled with warmth and affection. Francesca sighed, realizing that everything would be all right—that Hart had changed his mind, that he still loved her. She was so happy, and she did not want to ever leave his embrace. But she heard the insistent knocking on her door.
“Francesca Cahill, I must have a word with you,” Julia said sternly, standing over her bed.
Wide-awake and terribly disappointed that she had only been dreaming, Francesca blinked up at her mother. A maid pulled open her draperies, letting bright morning sunlight into the bedroom. As the last remnants of her dream faded, she immediately remembered that little Lizzie Kennedy had been abducted. “I have overslept,” she cried, sitting up. She threw the covers aside. She had so much to do!
Julia had both hands on her hips. She was already dressed in a striped pink ensemble, meaning it must be terribly late. “If you think you are rushing off to meet Rick Bragg, you are wrong.”
She had one bare foot on the floor, and she glanced at the gilded clock on her bedside table. It was only nine. Relief began. It wasn’t as late as she had thought. Clearly, she had been exhausted, to sleep so long. “I know you must want to talk to me,” she said, standing. “I mean, you are supposed to be in Saratoga Springs, yet here we are, still in the hot city.” She tried a warm smile on her mother.
Julia scowled. “You are, as usual, rushing about the city on some madcap criminal investigation and neither your father nor I know all the details about what really happened on Saturday. Do you ever intend to tell me?”
