Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  Francesca looked at the display window, which was filled with every kind of gun imaginable, and then she faced Joel, her pulse accelerating. She did not like guns—she never had—nor had she ever fired one. “Wait out here, and under no circumstance are you to come inside. In fact, our relationship is a suspicious one, so pretend you do not know me.”

  “OK,” Joel said happily.

  She smiled at him and because his shaggy black hair was covered by his wool cap she tugged on his earlobe affectionately; then, inhaling, for courage, she walked into the small shop. After all, she was a citizen, and everyone had the right to bear arms, so how difficult could it be to purchase a gun?

  Somehow, she expected it to be difficult indeed.

  Inside, it was poorly lit, but perhaps that was due to the fact that it was almost closing time and outside it was already dark. The shop contained three glass counters in the shape of a U, all filled with merchandise, and a bulky bald man with a thick black mustache was behind one of the counters. He had his back to Francesca, and was shoving something into a cabinet drawer, but as the bell on the door tinkled, he turned.

  “Hello,” Francesca said with false cheer, gripping her purse tightly. She did not understand her own state of nerves. Perhaps it was because she did not believe in guns—they were tools of injury and death. Yet a gun was a necessity in her new line of work; she had learned that lesson the hard way.

  Of course, she would only use it as a very last resort, when placed in the gravest imaginable danger.

  Francesca smiled at the owner, a plump-cheeked man of forty or so. “Good evening, sir,” she said, coming forward. As she did so, she saw that the counter to her right was filled with small weapons, some extremely dainty, and as a half a dozen had pearl handles, they were clearly for ladies.

  “May I help you, miss?” he asked.

  “I wish to purchase a gun,” she said.

  “Well, that is what we do here; we sell guns.” He eyed her closely. “But I have very few young ladies asking to buy for themselves. If you do not mind my asking, how old are you?”

  She hesitated, thinking quickly. “I am twenty-one, sir,” she fabricated. “But the gun is not for myself. My sister wishes to learn to shoot, and as her birthday is dawning, I have decided to buy her a gun. She is Lady Montrose,” she added.

  Most Americans were in awe of nobility, and he was no exception. Connie’s title gave him pause, and respectfully he said, “I have read about Lord and Lady Montrose in the social columns. So you are her sister?”

  Francesca smiled. “I am Francesca Cahill.”

  It was a small town, in a way, and she knew he was familiar with her last name, as his eyes widened slightly. Her father was very wealthy, although it hadn’t always been that way—as a boy, he had grown up on a farm, and he had worked in a butcher shop before he had acquired it himself. That had led him into meatpacking, and at the age of twenty-three Andrew Cahill had begun his first meatpacking plant.

  “Well, let us look at some guns, then.” The salesman smiled.

  She walked to the counter filled with pearl-handled derringers and other small pistols. He followed. “Sir? What about that little one with the silvery pearl handle?”

  He smiled at her and said, “The handle is opal. What kind of shooting does your sister wish to do?” He unlocked the case and removed the tiny gun.

  Francesca accepted the gun from him. It was so small, it was the size of her hand. It weighed perhaps a half a pound, surely not an ounce more. She lifted it and pointed it at the mirror on the other side of the room. This gun would be easy to use.

  “This will do nicely indeed,” she breathed, suddenly fascinated. It was beautiful, actually, and it would fit inside her purse easily. “I think she merely wants to own a gun, in case she ever needs one for protection,” Francesca added as he stared at her.

  He softened. “Well, then perhaps that derringer will do. If your sister wished to become a marksman, I would not recommend it. But if she wants a pretty bauble, why, this is perfect for her. Shall I gift-wrap it?”

  “That would be wonderful,” Francesca said, thinking that no one would ever suspect she was carrying a gun if it was in the box and in a shopping bag. It crossed her mind that he had referred to a weapon of death as a pretty bauble, but then she dismissed the thought. After all, this salesman was used to handling weapons, and compared to the huge and threatening revolvers in the other cases, not to mention the hunting rifles mounted on the walls, he would consider such a pistol a bauble indeed.

  It had been so easy!

  A tiny warning voice told her it had been too easy, but she ignored it.

  Outside, Joel was waiting for her, watching the passersby, his back against the storefront window, one foot up on the brick. Francesca smiled at him. “Mission accomplished,” she said lightly.

  “Let me see what you got!” he cried eagerly, coming off of the wall.

  She held up the box, which was wrapped in a pretty red, white, and blue paper. She had asked not to use the store’s wrap so that her sister would be genuinely surprised by the contents of the box; he had told her most of his customers preferred not to have AL’S GUN SHOP emblazoned on their box or bag. “I shall sneak it home this way,” she said, feeling rather triumphant.

  Joel was clearly disappointed that he would not have an opportunity to admire her new gun. “Can I see it tomorrow?”

  “Of course.” She took his arm. “I am off to Bragg’s. Shall I put you in a cab and send you home? We can meet early tomorrow and continue our work then.”

  “Wut time?”

  “How does nine o’clock sound? I can meet you directly at Kathleen O’Donnell’s.”

  They agreed to meet at nine. “I’ll take the crosstown,” he said. “Why waste the dough?”

  “Are you sure?” Francesca had begun when a voice said, “Miss Cahill! What are you doing down here, on Sixth and Forty-fifth?”

  She recognized the male voice, although she had only met its owner twice. Reluctantly she turned to face Richard Wiley, a tall, thin man who had thought to court her and who was blushing furiously now. “Why, Mr. Wiley, what a pleasant surprise,” she said.

  Francesca knocked on the door to Bragg’s house again—for the third time. Some anxiety filled her—in the past, the door had been opened by Peter almost the very moment she arrived on the stoop. Now she wondered what could be taking him so long. Then she told herself that no one answered the door so promptly all of the time.

  Suddenly he was standing in front of her, his expression inscrutable.

  “Peter!” she cried in relief. “Is everything all right? How are the girls?”

  “Everything is fine,” he said, glancing past her. Then he added, “You did not bring the nanny.”

  She blinked at him, as they had never had a conversation before. Did this mean he was eager to relinquish his temporary job as the girls’ caretaker? “I haven’t had time to hire one,” she said. “I am meeting Bragg here shortly. Where are they?” she asked, stepping inside.

  “The kitchen.” He closed the door behind her.

  Francesca could guess where the kitchens were, and she walked through a small dining room that had been painted a soft moss green, a dark oak table and six chairs in the middle of it. She opened the kitchen door and faltered.

  Both girls sat at the small pine table, which was a mess. Clearly Dot had been playing with her food, and applesauce, peas, and mashed potatoes were smeared everywhere. Katie sat beside her, potato clinging to her hair, a plate of food in front of her, which, while mushed and mashed, was so full it could not have been touched.

  Katie sat like a soldier at attention, neither moving, smiling, nor speaking. In fact, she might have been a porcelain doll.

  Dot saw them in the doorway and shrieked happily, then flung a drumstick at them.

  Francesca ducked and the drumstick ricocheted off of Peter’s broad chest.

  She bit her lip and looked at him. “Oh, dear.”

>   He said, “The brown-haired one won’t eat.”

  “Her name is Katie,” Francesca said, now realizing that milk had been spilled on the floor. It lay in a puddle by Katie’s feet and Dot’s chair.

  Peter picked up the drumstick and walked past the girls and deposited it in a trash container by the large iron sink.

  “Bragg is going to be home shortly, Peter,” Francesca said with real fear. “If he sees this mess, he will never agree to let the girls stay here!” Then she realized that Peter might not want them, either, and stared at him as she hurried forward, but his attention seemed to be on the mop he was reaching for. “Peter? Are you certain you are all right?”

  He gave her a brief look, one impossible to read as it was completely detached, and he approached the puddle. As he began to mop, Francesca smiled at both girls. “Hello, Katie, Dot.”

  Dot clapped her hands and grinned, mostly toothlessly, and then she dug her fist into her sister’s mashed potatoes.

  Katie acted as if she had not heard Francesca’s greeting. But her brow was knit, with either anger or determination.

  “Dot, we do not play with food,” Francesca said, removing both plates at once and depositing them in the sink. She found a rag and returned to the table as Dot laughed and threw food on the floor. “Katie, you did not eat.”

  Katie turned sullen eyes on her and said nothing.

  “Miss Cahill, I will do that,” Peter said.

  “That is quite all right, as I am partly responsible for this mess and their behavior.” She quickly wiped up all the food.

  “Miss Cahill, I shall clean the kitchen. You take the girls,” Peter said.

  Francesca was about to argue when she realized that it would be faster this way—as the girls did need some cleaning up. “All right. Here we go, Dot,” she said, lifting the small two-year-old up into her arms. Dot wrapped her skinny arms around Francesca’s neck and said, “Nice. Mmm. Nice.”

  Francesca smiled against Dot’s greasy cheek, suddenly hugging her a bit. “Yes, this is very nice, and you are a very sweet little girl.”

  Dot giggled.

  “Except for the food throwing. We do not play with or throw food.” She tried to sound stern.

  “Sh . . . sh . . . sh . . .” Dot said.

  “Sh?” Francesca returned.

  “Sh!” Dot cried, and it was a demand.

  “I do not know what ‘sh’ means, but I am certain I will find out. Katie? Let’s go. Bragg will be back, and we must clean up.”

  Katie did not move. Her lower lip seemed to protrude even more.

  “Katie? I am speaking to you,” Francesca said, trying to be both stern and kind at once.

  Suddenly Katie leaped to her feet and ran from the room.

  Francesca stared after her in amazement.

  “Kay-tie!” Dot shouted. “Kay-tie!” Clearly she was upset.

  “Miss Cahill? The motorcar,” Peter said, wiping the now-spotless table with a wet towel.

  “He is back?” Francesca whispered, aghast. Their gazes met. Francesca did not wait for his reply; she dashed to the kitchen sink, reaching for a faucet. “Be a good girl, now,” she tried.

  “Kay-tie?”

  Francesca shoved one hand after another into warm water, somehow lathering them with soap. She heard the faint sound of the roadster’s door slamming.

  Dot made a whistling sound, smearing Francesca’s cheek with soap.

  Francesca slid her to the floor and with a clean wet towel tried to remove food from the child’s face and hair. Dot grinned at her and grabbed one end of the towel, tugging on it.

  “Not now,” Francesca managed, wetting another piece and scrubbing her mouth. Mistakenly, in her rush she was too harsh.

  Tears filled Dot’s big blue eyes.

  “Don’t cry,” Francesca whispered, dismayed, as she heard footsteps in the dining room.

  “Peter?” Bragg’s voice drifted to her.

  Peter gave her a look; then he hurried from the kitchen, clearly waylaying his employer to give Francesca more time.

  “I am sorry; don’t cry,” Francesca whispered, her finger brushing the child’s golden curls.

  Dot slapped Francesca’s hand away, her lower lip pouting.

  Francesca glanced wildly around, and to her amazement, the kitchen seemed fresh and clean—except for the gooey dishes in the sink.

  Bragg stepped onto the kitchen’s threshold. “So you are here.”

  She whirled, pulling Dot to stand in front of her, smiling. And then, as their eyes met, her tension vanished. Suddenly acutely aware of the child she held by the shoulders, the man facing her, and the kitchen they stood in, she was struck by the domesticity of the scene. “Hello, Bragg.”

  But this scenario would never belong to them.

  He was smiling at her, and then his gaze went to Dot. His eyes softened even more. “What a pretty child,” he said.

  “She is very . . . sweet,” Francesca returned, praying Dot would return to her normal, ebullient self.

  “Why is she crying?”

  “I was washing her face,” Francesca said.

  “I see.”

  “Kay-tie!” Dot suddenly screamed. And her voice was so loud it was as if a siren had gone off in the room.

  Bragg winced. “What the hell was that?”

  Francesca lifted Dot into her arms. “She wants her sister. Let’s go find Katie, Dot,” she said brightly.

  Dot grinned brightly, the mood change instantaneous. “Find,” she ordered. “Find!”

  “Yes, we will find Katie now,” Francesca said. She approached Bragg with the child clinging to her neck. As he fell into step beside her, she saw Dot’s expression change. Suspicion covered her features as she stared at him.

  “This is my friend, and his name is Rick,” Francesca said quickly, afraid that Dot was about to become upset. “He is a good friend, Dot. Katie?” she called.

  There was no answer. They were crossing the dining room, Dot continuing to regard Bragg darkly.

  “I do not think she likes me,” he said.

  “She likes everyone,” Francesca said quickly. “She is an adorable little girl. Katie?” They paused in the entry hall as she tried again.

  “It is odd, seeing you with a child this way,” Bragg said.

  She started and their eyes connected. “Why?” she managed. Had he felt as she had?

  “It makes me think of you as a mother,” he said, and he seemed rather grim.

  Her heart turned over, hard and uncomfortably. “Do you want children, Bragg?”

  “I did. Not anymore,” he said.

  His answer was hardly a surprise. But he would be a wonderful role model for a son and a wonderful father to a little girl; Francesca just knew it. Still, she was too selfish to advise him to have children, although surely one day he would. Perhaps by then she would be accustomed to the fact that he had a wife.

  “I wish she would stop glaring at me,” Bragg remarked.

  Francesca realized that Dot was glaring at him, and she stroked her hair. “Dot? Bragg is my friend. He is your friend. Friend. Do you know what that means?”

  “Find,” Dot cried angrily. “Find find find!”

  “We had better find her sister. Katie?” Bragg called.

  They walked down the hall, toward the parlor. Two wall sconces illuminated the way. “On that subject, what did you find out at Kathleen O’Donnell’s?” Francesca asked.

  “That she worked hard, that she was a good mother to her child, that she attended church every Sunday,” Bragg said. He shoved open the parlor door. “Katie?” But the salon was empty. “She was also a seamstress by trade.”

  Francesca halted and stared at him. “Two murder victims, both seamstresses? Is this a coincidence?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you learn who Mike O’Donnell is?” Francesca asked.

  “He is her husband,” Bragg said.

  Francesca felt her eyes widen. “Well, that is getting us somewh
ere.”

  “But apparently, they have not lived together as man and wife in several years,” Bragg added.

  Her mind sped. “So she was a seamstress raising a child alone? But that is just like Mary!”

  “Yes, it is quite similar,” Bragg said.

  “Do you know where her husband is?” she asked after a moment.

  “He is a longshoreman, but no, no one knows his place of residence or employment. I have put men on it already. We will find him eventually if he is anywhere in the vicinity of the docks.”

  His study door faced them. It was solidly closed. “She would not be in there,” Francesca began. “Katie?” she called toward the upstairs, now becoming worried.

  “Kay-tie, Kay-tie, Kay-tie,” Dot chanted. She started to sniffle, as if about to sob.

  “We will find Katie,” Francesca said quickly, stroking Dot’s back, as Bragg pushed open the study door.

  “No one,” he began, and stopped.

  Francesca knew he had found Katie, and peered past him.

  The study was cast entirely in shadow, as not a single light was on. A small human form was hunched over in the far corner by the fireplace, and it was Katie, sitting absolutely still, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “Katie,” Francesca said, saddened by the sight. She entered the room, Bragg following her and turning on a lamp.

  “Katie? Are you all right?” Francesca asked softly.

  “Kay-tie!” Dot screamed.

  Katie might not have heard them, she was so still and motionless.

  Francesca felt Bragg regarding the tableau from behind her. She slid Dot to her feet, praying Katie would act like a normal child—at least for now. “Hello, Katie. My, it is dark in here. What are you doing by yourself? Would you like some company?”

  Katie lifted her head and stared coldly at her. She did not speak.

  “Kay-tie!” Dot whooped. She swooped in on her sister.

  “I can see this shall not be an easy night,” Bragg said flatly.

  Francesca glanced at him. “They are no trouble, really, Bragg.”

  He just looked at her, not angry, but clearly not pleased. “I am hardly a fool, Francesca.”