Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  “They just need some time to adjust,” she tried.

  “One night,” he warned. Suddenly his expression changed. He paled. “What is she doing?” he cried.

  Francesca turned.

  Dot was squatting, and as she peed on the Oriental carpet, she beamed at them both.

  “I am so sorry about that,” Francesca said, a good half an hour later. Both girls were tucked together into blankets and sheets on the floor in a small, unfurnished spare bedroom. Peter was reading them a story—unfortunately, it was from the Iliad. However, Dot seemed rapt even if she did not understand a word, while Katie had yet to speak.

  “So am I. I liked that rug,” Bragg said as they entered the foyer.

  “The rug is hardly ruined,” Francesca returned.

  “Well, it was an accident. I am sure it will not happen again.” He carried her coat in his hands.

  Francesca smiled at him. How to tell him that Dot clearly was not used to a toilet? To prevent future accidents, behind Bragg’s back she had found a napkin, intending to use it as a diaper, but Dot had taken one look at the white fabric and she had screamed, giving in to a two-year-old temper tantrum. She had won; Francesca had not pinned the napkin on her. “They have just lost their mother. Katie is grief-stricken, I think. But Dot is adorable, in spite of her little accident. Isn’t she?”

  Bragg sighed. “Please try to place them tomorrow,” he said, helping her on with her coat.

  Tomorrow was Saturday. Francesca knew she needed a good week to find them a proper home—at least. “I will do my best,” she said staunchly, shrugging into the sleeves. She was standing beside a small table that contained a lamp, a mirror above. As she found her sleeves, something fell to the floor. “Oh, I am sorry,” Francesca said, glancing down.

  Bragg was already retrieving what was clearly the day’s mail. He stood, a handful of envelopes in hand. “Peter is not himself today,” he remarked. “He always puts my mail on my desk.”

  Francesca merely smiled about him, thankful no end that he had not seen the kitchen before it had been cleaned up. Then she realized one more envelope lay on the floor, and she quickly scooped it up. As she did so, the stamp on the front caught her eye; the letter had been posted from Le Havre, France.

  Was it from Leigh Anne? It was addressed to Bragg, obviously, and the cursive was so elegant it could only be from a woman. Francesca turned over the envelope and the words on its back swam in her eyes:

  Mrs. Rick Bragg

  It was from his wife. Francesca could only gawk at the envelope. In fact, she could not even seem to think.

  She felt as if someone had landed a rude blow between her eyes.

  She was stunned.

  “Francesca?”

  “Oh!” She smiled and handed him the envelope; suddenly her hand was shaking.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked sharply.

  “Nothing,” she said, the smile plastered on her face. Now her mind raced. It hardly mattered if he had received word from his wife. For all Francesca knew, Leigh Anne wrote to him on a regular basis. Or perhaps the envelope contained her bills. Or a request for more funds. It did not mean anything at all!

  They despised each other, and they had not seen each other in four years, Francesca reminded herself.

  “Come, let me get you a cab.” He took her arm and they left the house. “Are you certain you are all right?”

  “I am fine,” she lied, because a sick and terrible feeling consumed her now.

  She knew, she just knew, that the letter was significant—and that no good would come of it.

  In fact, quite the opposite.

  SIX

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 7,1902—7:30 P.M.

  Julia was waiting for her.

  Her mother always dressed for supper, and she walked out of the yellow salon as Francesca left the hall. Tonight Julia’s gown was a watered-beige silk, so simple that it was marvelously elegant. Francesca smiled, acutely aware of the gun inside her purse. But she was not about to relinquish it to a maid; she was afraid the purse might fall or somehow come open, revealing its contents.

  Julia studied her and said, “You are just in time. I am afraid to ask where you have been all day.”

  “I have been making plans for the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements,” Francesca said. The excuse just popped into her mind. She had founded the society a month ago, and thus far there were only two members, herself and Calder Hart.

  Julia’s expression softened. “I heard that Calder Hart gave you a very generous donation, Francesca.”

  For one moment, Francesca could not believe her mother had somehow learned of his check, but then, Julia knew everything of importance in the city’s uppermost circles. Then Francesca realized that Connie had been with her when he had handed her his stunning gift. “Connie told you?”

  “Yes, she did.” Julia smiled. “You know, Hart is an avid supporter of the arts—he donates generously to several of the city’s museums, and he has given to the public library twice, I think. He also gave a scholarship to Columbia University for their Beaux-Arts program last fall. But he does not give political contributions, and it is a fact. He adamantly refuses to join any party or support any political candidate—much to everyone’s frustration. He also does not support reform. Many have sought aid from him for their various causes. I even approached him for a contribution to the Lenox Hill Hospital, and he politely refused.”

  Francesca flushed. “Well, he has decided to support this cause.”

  “He must be taken with you, Francesca,” Julia said, pleased.

  “Oh, balderdash.”

  “He gave you five thousand dollars. That is a tremendous sum.”

  “Mama, please! Hart is not taken with any one woman; his reputation is based on fact, not fiction. He is a ladies’ man, Mama,” Francesca said. She plopped down on the closest sofa, still clutching her purse too tightly, still too aware of her new gun. She felt like telling her mother that Connie was his next prey, but of course she would never do such a thing.

  “Well, I for one am pleased that you have met him and somehow captured his attention,” Julia said. “But you have been gone all day. Surely you were not making plans for your newest society the entire time?”

  Francesca blinked at her. Was her mother now tracking her movements? If she was, Francesca was in trouble indeed. She hesitated. “The commissioner has taken in two orphans. He asked me if I would look in on them as he could not get home to do so, and I did.”

  “Two orphans!” Julia exclaimed. “Rick Bragg has taken in two orphans?”

  “He also asked me to hire a nanny. Mama, might you recommend an agency?”

  “Of course I shall. There is only one that you should go to, as they have the finest help in the city. It is called Mansfield’s Butlers and Maids. Most of the servants they represent are British, and they are impeccably trained.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” Francesca said. She would go to the agency first thing in the morning, before she met Joel.

  “Well, let’s call your father and go in to supper. I hear you are going to the theater tomorrow night with your brother, Miss Channing, her cousin, and Rick Bragg. That should be an amusing evening. It is a nice group.”

  Francesca stood. “Evan mentioned our plans?”

  “He did.”

  Francesca hadn’t known that Sarah had a cousin who was joining them, but she hardly cared. “I have wanted to see this musical ever since it first opened,” she said, praying her mother would not remark on Bragg’s being in their group.

  “Too bad you did not invite Hart,” she commented as they left the salon. Then, before Francesca could reply, she said, “You are clutching your bag as if it contains gold.”

  Francesca inhaled sharply. “Mama, I must go upstairs, but I shall be down in a moment.”

  “Why don’t you invite Hart?” she said.

  Francesca met her gaze. “You know, that is a good idea,” she lied.

  Julia beamed.<
br />
  Francesca turned and hurried out of the hall, her bag—with its gun—in her hand. Of course, she was not about to invite Hart to join them. It would ruin the evening. He and Bragg would probably murder each other—or at least come to blows.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8,1902—11:00 A.M.

  Francesca and Joel slowly walked toward Water Street. Ahead, three large cargo ships, all under steam, were visible at several busy piers. A tugboat was chugging past, guiding an old-fashioned schooner that had seen far better days. The air was salty-sweet and crisp, and blocks of ice floated on the East River.

  The narrow side street they were on was dirt; now it was rutted and frozen. The sidewalks were board, and as they made their way down them they passed saloon after saloon. There was no other kind of commercial establishment present, at least not on the street.

  Two drunken sailors stumbled out of the closest bar, lurching precariously close to them. Francesca grabbed Joel’s hand and she halted, watching as the sailors made their way to and then across the street. A lone rider almost ran them down.

  “Is this it?” Francesca asked. “Kathleen’s cousin said the saloon Mike O’Donnell frequents has no name.”

  “Can’t see any sign,” Joel said, squinting up at the building that was made of rough wood siding. It looked cheap, disreputable, and as if it might come down at any moment. They had thus far learned that Mike did work on the docks, but that he picked up whatever labor he could, by the piece. Kathleen’s cousin, an older man named Doug Barrett, had said the only thing he knew for sure about Mike O’Donnell was that he loved to drink and that there were a dozen bars just past Water Street favored by him and his kind.

  Doug also hadn’t had any idea if Kathleen remained in touch with her husband.

  “Shall we go in?” Francesca asked, pretending to herself that she was not apprehensive.

  “I’ll go in,” Joel said. “An’ I’ll bring him out.”

  They had done this before when faced with other disreputable and possibly dangerous establishments. Francesca nodded, and as Joel walked in she slid her hand into her coat pocket, where she had put her gun.

  Gripping the dainty handle made her feel a bit better, but not much.

  The lone rider, a man who was clearly not a gentleman, although his horse was quite nice, had reached the end of the street. He turned abruptly and started riding directly toward Francesca.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She was vaguely aware of a group of men entering an adjacent saloon. Did that rider wish to speak to her? And for God’s sake, why?

  His bay horse skittered as he came up beside her. Francesca’s eyes felt wide; she stared.

  He grinned at her, broke into a canter, and went on past.

  Thank God! For one moment, she had thought him about to accost her.

  Francesca moved quickly closer to the side of the building, as if that might hide her presence in this unsavory neighborhood. As she did so, a man turned the corner by Water Street and started up the block where she was standing.

  His bulk seemed familiar, but she was nervous and clearly not of sound mind. Francesca studied the ground, wishing Joel would come out of the saloon.

  “Well, well, fancy meetin’ you here, Miss Cahill.”

  She would recognize that voice anywhere—because she would never forget his accosting her and kissing her. Francesca started, meeting Gordino’s gaze. Real fear seized her.

  He grinned, and it was leering. “All by yorself? Hey, you must be. The spot you’re so fond of would never leave you alone on the street like this.”

  She heard herself say, “Hello, Mr. Gordino. How are you?”

  He burst into rough laughter. “So now it’s Mr. Gordino? When before it was like, Mr. Murderer, Mr. Rough, Mr. Get Away From Me?”

  She had nowhere to back up to. “I am sorry for any past misunderstanding,” she whispered. “You were a go-between and we mistook you for the Burton boy’s abductor.”

  He shoved his face close to hers, with his foul breath and pockmarked skin. “ ’Cause of you an’ your lover, I spent too many nights to count in the Tombs. I owe you one, Miss Cahill.” His eyes were black and dangerous.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “A little boy’s life was at stake—”

  He cut her off. “An’ I owe Bragg. He’ll get his. Oh ho, I look forward to givin’ it to him.” With a savage smile, he whirled and shoved past her, knocking her hard into the wall as he did.

  She did not cry out. She could only stand there, breathless with fear, until he disappeared into another saloon, and even then, there was no relief.

  Oh, dear. Clearly she had made an enemy while solving the Burton Abduction. It was almost impossible to believe. Francesca had never had an enemy before, and especially not one who was a dangerous thug.

  “Lady?”

  Francesca turned in abject relief at the sound of Joel’s voice. Then she stiffened, face-to-face with a man who was perhaps thirty, with a shock of pale blond hair, bleached by the sun and the sea, and sun-bronzed skin that was weathered and rough-looking. “Mr. O’Donnell?”

  “That’s me,” he said, and he did not seem drunk, never mind that he had been located in a saloon before noon.

  “I am so sorry about your wife,” she said, watching him closely.

  He folded his arms. “Yeah? Why?” he challenged bitterly.

  “Why? Because she did not deserve her fate, and she left behind a young girl.” Her child had already been sent to an orphan asylum. Francesca had learned that Kathleen’s murder had taken place on January 10.

  She hadn’t even known Bragg then. They had met on the eighteenth.

  Mike O’Donnell shrugged. “Fate’s fate.”

  Francesca inhaled. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

  “Why?”

  She felt like telling him, “Because your sister and your wife were murdered in the exact same way!” Instead, she said, “Maggie Kennedy is a good friend of mine.”

  There was no reaction to Maggie’s name from Mike.

  “She was very close with your sister, Mr. O’Donnell.”

  “Yeah? So what’s it to me?” He shrugged and started toward the saloon entrance.

  “Your sister and your wife are dead—both murdered—within the span of a month. I must ask you some questions!” Francesca cried, rushing after him.

  “Only if you buy me a drink. I got one hour and I’m back to work.” He did not look back at her.

  Francesca started, looking at Joel, who seemed uncertain what to do. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s quite all right.” She patted his shoulder and hurried inside after O’Donnell, with Joel behind her.

  The saloon was crude. A rough oak bar was on one side of the large room, some stairs directly beside it. A woman’s laughter came from upstairs. Inside, Francesca saw five rickety tables, all square, all occupied. A very large man was tending the bar. Clearly he could toss out any patron that he wished, in spite of his age—he was in his fifties, she thought.

  O’Donnell was at the bar. Francesca went to stand beside him. The white-haired bartender stared, but not quite curiously. O’Donnell said, “The lady’s buying.”

  The bartender put glasses down in front of them both. He poured what appeared to be whiskey into them.

  O’Donnell lifted his, smiled sourly at Francesca, and belted down his shot. The bartender poured instantly.

  “When did you last see your wife, Mr. O’Donnell?” Francesca asked, removing a notepad and lead pencil from her purse.

  He eyed her accoutrements, then said, “Dunno. A year. Two.” He shrugged. “Why? You think I done it?”

  She blinked, taken by surprise. “I never said that.”

  He grinned and sipped his second shot.

  “You did not visit your daughter on a regular basis?” She had already noted that both murder victims had daughters, not sons.

  “Nope.” He eyed her over the rim of his glass. “Kathleen didn’t want me around. Said I was a bad influence.�
��

  Francesca tried to determine if he had cared at all about his wife or what she had said, but he seemed absolutely indifferent. “When was the last time you saw your daughter? I believe her name was Margaret.”

  “Dunno.” He finished the shot.

  “Can you try to remember?” she asked.

  “It was a long time ago!” he exploded. “But it was the winter, maybe just before Christmas, or was it before Thanksgiving? Last year, the year before, I don’t know!” He was angry now. He shoved his glass toward the bartender, who promptly filled it up.

  Francesca said, “I am not trying to upset you. What about Mary? How often did you see her?”

  Not looking at her, he said, “From time to time. Maybe every week or so.”

  She could not tell if he was lying. “So you were close.”

  He looked at her. “I didn’t say that.”

  She hesitated—if he didn’t care about his own daughter, would he care about his nieces? “Dot and Katie need a new home now that their mother is dead.”

  He eyed her. “An’ I hope they find it.”

  She met his blue gaze. Did this man have any compassion inside him at all?

  He returned her gaze, sighing loudly. “I don’t know why they’re both dead. But don’t pin the rap on me! I didn’t have nuthin’ to do with either of ’em. An’ I’m a busy man. I got no time for the girls.” He was defensive.

  “I never said you had anything to do with either your wife’s or your sister’s murder. I hadn’t even thought such a thing,” Francesca said, a vast lie.

  His face became anguished. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ’em both!” Suddenly he cradled his head with both hands. “I wouldn’t kill Kathleen. I . . . loved her. She’s the one who hated me. I never wanted to go. She wanted me out.” He did not look up.

  “I am sorry,” Francesca said, meaning it. “Have the police spoken to you?”

  His eyes widened fractionally, and then he recovered his poise. “No.”

  Francesca bit her lip. She was going to have to tell Bragg that she had found O’Donnell. He would not be very happy that she had been the one to locate him.

  “I ain’t talkin’ to the fuckin’ leatherheads,” he said harshly. “They’re all scum, every last sotted one of ’em.”