Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  “By the time he does that, you an’ her will be stiff as boards. Drop the gun.”

  Francesca hesitated. This woman had killed her two friends, and now she would kill Maggie and probably Francesca, all the while intending for her husband to go to jail to take the rap for her.

  “Drop the gun!” Lydia ordered, and Maggie gasped as the knife held to her throat cut into her skin.

  Francesca dropped the gun. “Don’t hurt her! I beg you. Just leave. I swear we will let you go . . . Lizzie.”

  Lizzie O’Brien smiled at her. “How clever you are.”

  “You have framed your own husband, didn’t you?” Francesca whispered. “But why kill your two dearest friends? And why write the poems? Why carve the cross upon their throats?”

  “I thought the poems very clever!” Lizzie exclaimed. “As Lincoln fancies himself a poet. He is always penning these stupid verses. I realized I must pretend to be a mad man to mislead the coppers. And it worked, didn’t it?”

  “It was very clever,” Francesca said uneasily. Briefly she exchanged a glance with Maggie, who was as white as a ghost, her eyes terrified. “But I still don’t understand why.”

  “I didn’t want to kill anyone,” Lydia said angrily. “I really didn’t. But I knew I could not trust them! I knew that they would tell Lincoln the truth about me as soon as they discovered it.” Her eyes turned black. “They were always so good. Growing up, it was always, ‘Now isn’t Kathleen such a good girl?’ Or, ‘See that sweet little Maggie. Now why can’t you be as kind as her?’ When I had my first boy my papa whipped me black-and-blue and told me I should be like sweet, pious Mary! She would never go with a boy, oh no!” Lizzie cried.

  Francesca inhaled. “But she somehow met Lincoln—”

  “And he fell for her!” Lizzie shouted. “We ran into each other a week ago, and I could not weasel out of a meeting, so I invited her home. Lincoln walked in and as always, Mary stole the day! Because she is so perfect and pure, so good! I saw the way he looked at her and I knew I had to end it, instantly. So I invited her back over for tea.” Lizzie smiled, but then her expression changed, becoming feral.

  Francesca shivered, ill. Mary must have realized how insane Lizzie was and that was why she had tried to approach Francesca before her death. Francesca realized they would never know what had changed her mind. “You invited her to your home to kill her. Did you follow her from the house? Kill her and then bury her elsewhere?”

  “Yes, I did,” Lizzie was defiant. “What else was I to do? She was going to tell Lincoln the truth, I am certain! And if Lincoln ever knew the truth, if he ever knew I was Lizzie O’Brien and not the oh, so sweet and genteel Lydia Danner, he would boot me out quicker than a man can spit! I have everything I want now, and if he goes to jail, should I care? I would have his house, his carriage, his money! I could not let my dear old friends destroy all that I have worked so hard for.”

  “So you simply set out to murder them all?” Francesca asked, chilled.

  “As soon as I had Lincoln agreeing to an immediate marriage, I began to plan. How could I not? His mother lived in New York and he intended for us to return there. What should I have done? Married him and returned to the city and then have lived in constant fear of running into Kathleen, Mary, or Maggie? They are the only ones who could identify me.” She smiled grimly. “I chose Kathleen to be the first. Because I made a mistake last year, well before I met Lincoln, of telling her my plans to masquerade as a genteel woman and marry rich. She was aghast.” Lizzie laughed in disgust. “None of them ever had any brains. Or any balls.”

  “You are evil,” Maggie whispered. “Disgustingly evil, mad!”

  “Shut up!” Lizzie shouted, and the knife cut the skin at Maggie’s throat.

  “No!” Francesca screamed, starting forward.

  “Stop!” Lizzie shouted, as a trickle of blood slid down Maggie’s neck. She appeared ready to faint. “I am not evil, you fools! Why do you think I carved the cross on their throats? I wanted God to know that I am every bit as pious as they are! My whole life He has frowned down on me. But now, I can feel Him, finally, and He is smiling, He is pleased, because I have made peace with Him!”

  Francesca met Maggie’s gaze. She tried to warn her in a silent communication not to move, not to speak. Maggie seemed to understand, but there was a huge question in her eyes. Francesca had no answer. For the question was, Now what?

  “Don’t look at each other like that,” Lizzie warned. “I am clever. Very clever, more so than anyone—and my life proves that. Why do you think that I hired you? I wanted you to find the body. It was a part of my plan. To drop clues like a trail of bread crumbs and lead you to Lincoln.”

  Francesca stared at her. She was a monster—and completely unhinged.

  Francesca was appalled.

  So was Maggie. She could not remain silent, apparently. “You are horrid. None of us ever suspected you were such a cold and evil creature. We thought you were wild, but never did we dream you evil! Have you no remorse at all?” She stopped, tears coming to her eyes.

  “Shut up,” Lizzie said. “But I will like killing you the best! Saint Maggie! So pure—turnin’ away all the men—it’s almost like you had four by immaculate conception!”

  “That’s not fair,” Maggie said, twisting her head in spite of the knife to look at the woman she had once thought to be an old and real friend. “You know how much I loved Joel’s father.”

  Lizzie almost snarled. “I got to admit, he loved you, too. I tried to get his pants off more than once and he never caved in.”

  “God help me, I hate you,” Maggie whispered, crying. “You shall burn in hell for this.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere except back to my fancy house on the corner of Sixth Avenue,” she said. She turned to Francesca. “You got my confession now, don’t you, clever lady? But like hell you’ll be able to use it. Get in the room.”

  Francesca did not move. She did have Lizzie’s confession, but it would not do anyone much good if she went into that bedroom with Maggie, where Lizzie would kill them both.

  Joel.

  He had ceased banging on the door.

  He was a very clever boy, and had he been able to hear their conversation from the other room? Francesca couldn’t be sure, as they stood in the middle of the hall, some distance from the children’s room. But he was smart enough to know that they were locked in—and surely he had heard his mother’s scream.

  Her heart raced with hope.

  “Come into Maggie’s room, Miz Cahill,” Lizzie said. “An’ if you try anything, I am cutting her throat, right across the artery, an’ that’s the end of Maggie.” Her eyes had somehow turned black; she meant her every word.

  Francesca swallowed down a lump of fear, trying not to look at the gun at her feet. “Very well,” she managed, slowly coming forward. Francesca and Maggie looked at each other. Maggie remained frightened, but she had calmed. There was a question in her eyes. What should I do? it said.

  Francesca calculated that her parents might come home in another half an hour, and that amount of time now seemed like an eternity. And even if Bragg realized that he had the wrong man, he would not be able to get uptown much before that. They were on their own.

  Except for Joel.

  But she must not count on him, as he was locked in another bedroom.

  Francesca entered the bedroom, which was lit with two small lamps, and Maggie and Lizzie moved inside behind her. Lizzie used her foot to kick the door closed.

  Francesca said, “I will let you go, scot-free, now, if you release Maggie. You know that by the time the police arrive here you will be long since gone. You are very clever—I am certain you will find a way to escape the city safely.”

  “Oh, don’t be stupid,” Lizzie said. “I have no intention of being on the run for the rest of my life. I like living fancy and rich. Lincoln will have to go to prison for this. I am not about to lose my new home and my new place in life.”

  “I h
ate to tell you this, but Lincoln is with the police right now, so they will know he did not kill Maggie or myself,” Francesca said as evenly as possible.

  Lizzie smiled. “Am I the stupid one?” she exclaimed. “I know that! I am going to have to get rid of both your bodies so they are never found—or make them such a mess that if they are found, no coroner will be able to figure out when you was both killed.”

  Francesca thought about what it meant to be stabbed. She was sick to her stomach, imagining what this woman meant. “You are mad.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bragg will know I was killed after eleven!”

  “But he’ll release Lincoln for now. Because he really is innocent. And when they find your body and figure out it’s you—if they ever do—he won’t know whether you died tonight, tomorrow, or the next day. I am not stupid,” Lizzie said.

  “You are mad,” Maggie whispered. “And evil!”

  “You have always annoyed me,” Lizzie said. “Because of all of us, you were the perfect one, the virtuous one, the saint.” She stabbed her.

  Francesca screamed and Maggie cried out, but the stab was in her side, a vicious and mean blow. “Stop!” Francesca screamed.

  “I do believe little Sarah Channing likes me,” Lizzie said, holding Maggie up, who had blanched impossibly. Blood blossomed on her ivory cotton nightgown, just above Lizzie’s left hand. “I am sure she will console me when I weep on her shoulder over my husband having been found to be a murderer. I have a new friend!”

  “You are despicable,” Maggie whispered on a soft moan.

  “No, I am rather brilliant, for a fishmonger’s daughter.”

  Francesca thought, It is now or never. There was a small fire in the hearth. No flames were crackling, but the logs were glowing red. She would burn her hands terribly, but she would be able to set Lizzie’s dress on fire, and if the other woman burned, she could not care.

  Suddenly she felt a gaze upon her. It was Maggie’s. Her eyes were wide—she had seen where Francesca was looking and clearly understood what she wished to do. Maggie shook her head slightly, and it was a plea for Francesca not to try something so dangerous and so drastic.

  “What is it?” Lizzie jerked on Maggie and Maggie turned white—blood gushed from her wound.

  Francesca dived for the fire.

  Lizzie shouted at Francesca.

  The window behind Francesca shattered.

  As Francesca reached for a burning piece of wood, she thought it was a rock that had broken the window, and she knew it was Joel. But she did not stop, seizing the small glowing log.

  The pain was immediate—stunning.

  Lizzie shouted, “What is that! Hey—stop!”

  The burning pain blinded her. Francesca hurled the wood at Lizzie’s skirts, unable to see, blinded by tears.

  But her vision was good enough for her to see the peach silk burst into flames, just as Joel came charging through the window like some dark-haired avenging angel. Lydia screamed as her entire dress went up in flames, releasing Maggie, dropping the knife, and running around the room. Seconds later, she hurled herself through the window.

  Two police officers stood sentinel in the front hall beside the front door. Lizzie was unconscious and being carried out on a stretcher to a waiting ambulance wagon. Bragg and Newman were in the hall, overseeing her removal. She was badly burned, but she had put the fire out by jumping out of the window and into the snow.

  Francesca sat on a sofa in the salon closest to the door, her hand covered with salves and heavily wrapped in a bandage. Although the burn had finally been treated by Dr. Finney, her hand hurt terribly. She watched as Lizzie disappeared from her line of sight. Then she looked up at her parents.

  Julia was close to tears. Francesca had never seen her mother cry—except after Connie had finally delivered her first child after an exceedingly long, difficult, and dangerous labor. When Neil had announced that it was a girl, Julia had wept.

  She was sitting beside Francesca, holding her good hand, still in her royal blue evening gown, trying very hard to contain her emotions.

  Andrew stood with his hands in the pockets of his black satin-trimmed trousers, his bow tie unhooked and dangling about his neck. His tuxedo jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of a chair. They had walked in about five minutes after Bragg and the police.

  Francesca smiled gamely at Julia, who did not smile in return. She looked at her father, and he was awfully grim. Then she realized that Bragg had walked outside with Newman. She had briefly treated her hand with snow and ice after determining that Lizzie was not on fire and that she was unconscious and going nowhere. She had left her in the yard in the snow, rushing up to help Maggie with her wound. When Bragg had arrived on the scene, she had been placing a makeshift bandage on Maggie. She and Bragg had exchanged two sentences: she had told him that Lizzie O’Brien was the murderess, and he had said that he already knew. Dr. Finney was upstairs with Maggie now.

  “Mama? Please, do not be so upset. It worries me to see you this way.”

  “You are my daughter!” Julia cried. “Dear God, Francesca, I last saw you at the ball, seated between Mr. Hart and Sarah, having what I thought was a very good time. And then we come home and find you with a badly burned hand, a woman unconscious in the yard—a murdering woman—and poor Mrs. Kennedy stabbed in the side! I just do not know what to do! For the first time in my life, I am at a loss!”

  “My hand is not badly burned,” Francesca said. “It is my fingertips which are burned, mostly, and in a week or so I shall be as good as new.”

  “No, Dr. Finney said he would change the dressing every day, to make sure no infection sets in. He said it is possible, but not probable, that you might be able to remove the bandage in a week. But he doubts it.” Her eyes held Francesca’s.

  Francesca already knew all this; it might be several weeks before she had the full use of her right hand again. “I had to save Maggie’s life.”

  “No. The police were responsible for Mrs. Kennedy’s life. Not you,” Julia said.

  Andrew stood before them. “Francesca, no one admires you more than I do. You have made me proud, time and again. I thank God now that you were not hurt.” He hesitated. “I am proud of you now, darling, for saving Mrs. Kennedy’s life.”

  Julia gasped in a protest.

  Francesca smiled a little, warmed as she always was when her father praised her. “Thank you, Papa.”

  Evan rushed into the room. “Good God! There are policemen everywhere, and I just saw an ambulance wagon leaving the house!” He stopped, eyes wide on Francesca and her heavily bandaged hand. “What happened?”

  “I burned my hand and I am fine,” Francesca said.

  “She will be fine, in a few weeks,” Andrew said to his son.

  They had not been speaking recently, due to Evan’s engagement; in fact, Evan had been ignoring Andrew, very much as an adolescent would. Now, however, he turned directly to his father. “What?”

  “Apparently the Cross Murderer came here to do away with Mrs. Kennedy. Your sister saved the day, although she did burn her hand in the process,” Andrew said.

  Evan looked from Andrew to Fran. “Is Maggie all right?”

  “She was stabbed, but she will be fine,” Andrew began.

  He did not have a chance to finish, because Evan rushed from the room.

  And Francesca realized that Bragg was standing in the doorway. Her heart tightened and she met his eyes and wished they were alone. He said, “May I have a word briefly with Francesca?”

  “Of course,” Andrew said.

  Julia squeezed Francesca’s good hand one more time and said to her, “I will never allow you to be in danger again.”

  “I am all right, Mama,” Francesca whispered.

  More tears came to Julia’s blue eyes. She made a disparaging sound. Andrew held out his hand to her, and she took it. They left the room.

  Bragg closed both salon doors, and then he strode swiftly forward and sat down b
eside Francesca. He enclosed her left hand in both of his palms. “Are you all right?”

  “You know I am,” she said softly, their gazes locked.

  “I know no such thing. Francesca, you could be gravely injured, stabbed like Maggie, or dead.” He was anguished and the depth of his feelings was so evident that Francesca could not help but be thrilled.

  “But I am not gravely injured, although I might have a scarred palm. Which I hardly care about.”

  “But I care,” he said urgently.

  “Bragg, she stabbed Maggie. She is an evil woman, and I did not know what else to do.”

  He lifted her good hand and kissed it deeply. Amazingly, his kiss stirred her the way their interlude in the Channing library had—but even more profoundly. She felt rocked by the very depth of her feelings. “I know,” he said roughly. “You are a quick thinker and the bravest woman I know.” He could not smile at her.

  She suddenly realized that tears were shimmering on his dark brown lashes. “Are you crying?” she gasped.

  “No.” But he was clearly so distressed for her that he was almost in tears. “I am shaken. I do not know what to do to keep you out of danger.”

  “Well,” she said, ready to cry now as well. “I cannot possibly sleuth for several weeks, as I do not care for the idea of confronting a criminal without the full use of my right hand.”

  “Thank God! There is a two- or three-week respite,” he said almost savagely.

  “Perhaps this was a bit dangerous,” Francesca had to admit.

  “Perhaps?” His golden eyes widened.

  “Bragg?” She started to tremble. “I was really frightened.”

  His jaw flexed and, mindless of where they were and who was about the hall behind the closed doors, he lulled her into his arms. Francesca buried her face against his strong chest, and she felt safe. She refused to move. Her body seemed to melt into his.

  She felt him cup the back of her head. Her hair had come loose ages ago, and it was a golden cape about her shoulders and back. His fingers moved through the strands, his entire hand covering her skull. It was vastly reassuring. She felt him kiss the top of her head.