Deadly Pleasure

by Brenda Joyce

  “But what?” he demanded.

  She couldn’t quite smile. “Miss de Labouche is my client,” Francesca said. Which wasn’t quite true, as their arrangement wasn’t quite official. But Francesca felt certain that they had an understanding; besides, Miss de Labouche would undoubtedly agree to retain her as a crime-solver if Francesca offered her services for free.

  And she watched as the blood pressure Bragg had spoken of soared.

  He bounded up the stairs ahead of her, without a word.

  Francesca followed. On the second floor’s landing he whirled and they collided. “Go downstairs,” he said tightly.

  She did not really want to fight. “Very well. But you do not have to be so mean-spirited, Bragg.”

  His response was, “My hair has turned gray in the two weeks since we have met.”

  Francesca smiled as he turned away; absurdly, she was somewhat pleased.

  She heard him calling for Miss de Labouche. There was only one bedroom on top of the stairs, which was not unusual, as clearly this was a large townhouse that had been subdivided into several apartments. The lady of the house did not answer.

  As Bragg finally pushed open the door to the bedroom, Francesca glanced into the separate bathing room. Signs of a hastily disrupted bath were everywhere: a small stool contained an open bottle of champagne and two glasses, one half-full, a towel lay in a heap upon the floor, and candles had been burned down to their wicks. The bathroom, while small, had been painted a dusky shade of pink, and it was quite pretty. A colorful painted screen was in one corner, and wall pegs contained several lacy peignoirs. There was no toilet, which was in an adjacent and separate chamber.

  Francesca stared down. In the porcelain tub, a tub that stood on gilt claw feet, floating in the two inches of leftover water, was a large plastic object in a nondescript color. But there was absolutely nothing nondescript about its shape and there was no mistaking what it was meant to represent. As Francesca stared, she felt herself warm.

  Good God. Now she understood.

  “She isn’t here and there is a back stairs which leads to the kitchen—she is gone,” Bragg said darkly, pausing on the threshold of the bathroom.

  “Oh,” Francesca said, backing out and brushing past him in her haste.

  So that was what a sex toy was. She simply could not get over it. Her mind spun.

  “Oh, Christ,” Bragg said, stepping out of the bathroom.

  She could not look him in the eye. “Well, she was most definitely in the bath.”

  “That does not mean she did not kill her lover,” Bragg returned, far too evenly.

  Still not looking at him, Francesca poked her head inside the bedroom, which was a red room with many Chinese paintings on the walls, gold velvet draperies, and an Oriental screen. The bed was large, also done up in red, and it dominated the room. It was perfectly made up.

  Francesca left the bedroom, glancing briefly down the back stairs. In the dark, and in her fear, she had never noticed stairs that led to and from the kitchen. “She was in the bath, Bragg, exactly as she said she was,” Francesca said.

  He sighed, placing his hand on her shoulder and guiding her downstairs, the back way. Voices could now be heard in the foyer in the front of the apartment. “Francesca, you are young. And genteel. Perhaps she bathed after killing her lover.”

  Bragg was one of the smartest men she knew; he was also very perceptive. Surely he had seen that plastic object floating in the bath? She said, harshly, “She bathed with her toy, Bragg.”

  They had reached the kitchen. Francesca turned on the light as Bragg repeated, “As I said, perhaps she bathed after killing Randall.”

  Francesca finally understood his meaning and she stared. “But that is sickly!”

  “Yes, it is.” He left her standing in the kitchen as he went through the dining alcove and into the front hall.

  Francesca forced herself to recover from her shock. She ran after him and found him telling two patrolmen to cordon off the area immediately, with another two officers awaiting their instructions. “I believe the murder was committed with a small weapon, a lady’s pistol, perhaps, or a gentleman’s derringer. I want a search conducted now. The house, the grounds, the entire city block if need be, but I expect that weapon to be found tonight.” The first two roundsmen quickly left, the expressions on their faces severe and determined.

  Francesca grimaced. She had forgotten, but if Bragg had demoted 300 officers, the entire department was in chaos, and undoubtedly in abject fear of Bragg as well. She glanced at the other two men standing stiffly before Bragg, waiting for their orders. They did not seem happy. But clearly they would jump through a hoop if he so commanded it.

  Two plainclothes detectives came through the front door, one of whom Francesca recognized as Inspector Murphy, a man with a big belly and thick sideburns. “The corpse is in the parlor,” Bragg said. “But first, we also must locate Georgette de Labouche, the mistress of the house. You may not arrest her, but she is to be brought downtown for questioning by myself, personally. Francesca, please describe Miss de Labouche.”

  “Bragg,” she began, in protest.

  Murphy had just recognized Francesca and the portly man’s eyes widened briefly. Bragg said, “Describe Miss de Labouche, please. Time is of the utmost importance now.”

  Francesca was almost certain that Georgette had not killed Paul Randall. She said, “She is about thirty, plump and pleasing, with curly red hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a blue suit, the jacket of which was rather daring. Also, large aquamarine drop earrings and a big aquamarine butterfly pin. She had several large rings on both hands, one of which might have been a garnet set in silver, not gold.”

  “Thank you,” Bragg said. To Murphy, “She can’t have gone far. Put the word out. I want her in my office before the sun comes up. Begin by speaking with the neighbors. Someone may have seen her leaving, and we must learn when Randall arrived.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, exiting the house. From his tone, Francesca was surprised that he did not salute.

  “I should like to see the victim,” the other detective said.

  “Please,” Bragg returned with a gesture.

  The detective left them to go into the parlor. Horses’ hooves sounded on the cobblestones of the street outside. Francesca also heard wagon tires. She moved and glanced out the window beside the front door. A police wagon had arrived, and wardsmen were jumping out. Someone had already placed a sawhorse on one end of the block, and she saw another patrolman dragging a second barricade to the front of the house. Lights had appeared in the windows of the houses just across the street. Francesca saw several neighboring tenants in those windows, and one was shoved open. A man shouted, “What the hell is going on?”

  “Peter?” Bragg intoned.

  Francesca turned, startled, and she saw the big man step out of the shadows by the stairs. She had not even realized he was present. He had one hand on Joel Kennedy’s small shoulder. Joel gave her an annoyed look, which turned to a pleading one. The silent language he spoke was unmistakable—he wanted to get away from the police as soon as possible, if not sooner. She smiled at him reassuringly.

  He scowled and said, low, “Bugger all coppers.”

  “Please take Miss Cahill home and see to it that she does go home,” Bragg said, ignoring Joel’s comment. “The boy may go as well.” Bragg glanced at her and briefly their gazes held.

  Francesca was dismayed. She did not want to go. Not when Georgette had run away, not when the murder weapon had yet to be found, not when Bragg would soon huddle with Murphy and that other detective to discuss the case. And what about the neighbors? She wanted to hear what they might say!

  This was her case. Yet she was being excluded.

  “Good night, Francesca,” Bragg said firmly.

  She stared mutely at him for a moment. Then she nodded, realizing she had no choice but to leave—as he was not giving her one. But tomorrow, why, that was a brand-new day— one filled w
ith exciting possibilities. “Good night, Bragg.” She was sweet.

  As she followed Peter to the door, Bragg said, “And, Francesca?”

  She paused, regarding him innocently.

  “If your client contacts you, I am certain you will inform me immediately,” he said.

  She mustered up another too-nice smile. “Of course,” she replied.

  “I mean it,” he said, a warning.

  “As do I.”

  FIVE

  Saturday, February 1, 1902—10:00 A.M.

  The moment she awoke she recalled that she had her very first case and so much to do that she doubted it could all be done in a day. Too many questions to count flooded her instantly racing mind: Had Georgette de Labouche been found? What was Calder Hart’s relationship with the deceased? Had a neighbor seen or heard anything?

  And who hated Paul Randall enough to want him dead?

  Francesca was determined to solve the murder, thus proving to Bragg once and for all how invaluable she was, and she blinked her eyes open, imagining how, in a week or so, he would once again thank her for her indispensable help— and perhaps even confess that he could not have managed the investigation without her.

  She smiled.

  But it was not Bragg standing at the foot of her bed, smiling back at her. Her sister, Connie, clad in a beautiful rose-and-cream-striped ensemble, stood at the foot of her bed, as radiant as ever, smiling with bemusement. “Good morning, sleepyhead. That must be some dream, Francesca, to put such a smile on your face!”

  Francesca sat up with a wide and inelegant yawn. “It was.”

  “Let me guess. Our dashing new police commissioner?” Connie teased.

  Francesca sobered. There was one problem—she was not a police officer, and Rick Bragg was determined to keep her out of the investigation. It was as if their teamwork during the Burton Affair had never occurred. Somehow, she would have to sleuth very discreetly indeed. Until he realized how invaluable she was. “What are you doing here and what time is it?” Francesca flung the heavy quilts and blankets aside, glancing at her partially drawn draperies as she did so. Outside, the sun was up and high. She had overslept.

  “It is past ten, and I admit to being simply shocked that I have found you loitering abed like any other of your unwed peers.” Connie smiled again, arms folded.

  “It was a late night,” Francesca admitted. She and her sister were as close as could be, and Francesca was pleased to find her sister waiting for her to wake up. Perhaps their closeness could be explained by the fact that there was so little or no sibling rivalry between them because they were so different, in spite of their nearly identical looks. While Francesca was the bluestocking and reformer in the family, Connie was an indisputably perfect hostess, an elegant wife, and the doting mother of two darling little girls. As young girls, Francesca had studied and Connie had gone to tea parties with Julia. As much as Francesca had sought to avoid suitors, Connie had encouraged them even before her informal debut. Francesca had always, secretly, known she would postpone marriage for as long as possible; Connie had always, openly, dreamed of whom she might wed and prayed it would be as soon as she was old enough. She had been seventeen when she had met Neil Montrose, and they had been married a year later. She was only twenty-two now.

  “I see that it must have been a very late night,” Connie was saying. “Have you been up until dawn studying?”

  Francesca grinned as she stood, shivering a bit in her pale blue silk nightgown. “No. I have my first case, Con!” she exclaimed, keeping her voice down but unable to contain or even hide her excitement.

  “Your first what?” Connie asked with a furrowed brow.

  “My first case.” When Connie failed to understand, Francesca said, perplexed, “Con, as a crime-solver. Remember?”

  Connie blinked. “What?”

  Francesca could not believe Connie did not understand. She was already reaching for the purse she had used last night. She handed Connie one of her calling cards. “Didn’t I show these to you? I picked them up at Tiffany’s on Thursday.” Connie would be the first person she would show her new cards to—after Bragg.

  The card read:

  Francesca Cahill

  Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

  No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

  All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small

  Connie gasped. “Oh, dear. When I said you should become a crime-solver, I was in jest, Francesca. What about your studies?” Clearly she was alarmed. Her sky-blue eyes were hugely wide.

  Francesca blinked and retrieved her card, tucking it safely away. “My studies shall not suffer, I may assure you of that.”

  “What do you mean, you have your first case? And what is it?” Connie demanded nervously. Then, “Mama will kill us both when she learns of this!”

  “Mama is not going to learn of this,” Francesca said, her tone becoming even lower. It also contained a warning.

  Connie gave her a disbelieving look. “No one can keep a secret from Mama for very long. She knows everything of import that pertains to anybody she deems a significant part of her life.”

  That was more than true. Julia was, beyond a doubt, one of the shrewdest and most powerful women in the city. She knew all of the city’s leaders, both gentlemen and ladies. She more than knew the city’s elite; she was an active force behind almost any important social, political, or charitable scene or encounter. When she wished to, she could move mountains. Better yet, when she wished it, the mountain always came to her.

  “I do not like this,” Connie said.

  “I am sorry. But don’t worry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. So. What are you doing here—and on a Saturday morning?” Francesca suddenly realized just how odd this visit was. “Isn’t Neil at home?” Her heart lurched as she spoke. It was far too early for Neil to be out philandering, wasn’t it?

  Francesca remained in disbelief every time she thought about her brother-in-law and his affair. God, he had been, up until her awful discovery, the noblest gentleman she had ever met. In fact, Francesca had thought him to be perfect in every way, including as a husband.

  Connie had looked away. “Yes. Neil is at home.” Her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.

  Francesca saw the troubled look upon her sister’s face and hated herself for not blurting out what she knew. And there was no possibility of Francesca having made a mistake; she had actually caught Neil in the act. Of course, Francesca was aware that his lover was about to depart for Europe for the rest of the year. And that would be the end of the affair, Francesca thought. So perhaps this would all simply disappear.

  But she did not think so. A few days ago Connie had quite bitten her head off for prying into her personal life. She had been so explicit, demanding that Francesca mind her own affairs. Never had Connie been so angry.

  Connie had never before spoken to Fran in such a way.

  Francesca was not certain whether Connie knew, but clearly she sensed that something was amiss. Francesca smiled a little now. “So, you have come to share a late breakfast with me?” Connie was a dedicated wife and mother, and her not being at home on a Saturday morning with her infant daughter, three-year-old Charlotte, and Neil was a sure sign of the distress brewing in her life.

  Connie returned her smile. “I thought it would be fun to go shopping. Besides, Neil is going out to lunch and Charlotte has a birthday party to attend.”

  Francesca merely stared. The sister she knew would take both of her daughters to the party and hobnob with the other mothers there—all of whom were young, newly married high-society wives.

  “I have come to fetch you so we can spend all of our money, have lunch at Sherry’s or the Plaza Hotel, and have the most wonderful time!” Connie cried, but the smile on her face did not reach her eyes.

  Francesca looked at her. Connie knew she hated shopping, but her face was so earnest now, and her eyes were so clearly unhappy, filled with dismay, and perhaps also with fear. Francesca took her h
and. “Oh, Con. I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

  “Whyever not?” Connie cried.

  She hesitated. “My case. I must interview several people.” Paul Randall’s widow was first on her list; second was Calder Hart. She would also enlist Joel to go down to Mulberry Street and try to ferret out information regarding any progress Bragg had made thus far in his investigation.

  “You are going to spend the day sleuthing?” Connie asked with a bit of surprise.

  Francesca nodded brightly. “But please, do not use that word in this house!”

  “Mama is in her apartments. She will not come down for another two hours and you know it.”

  “There is always a first time.”

  “I doubt it. Very well. I shall accompany you,” Connie said flatly.

  “What?” Francesca was sure she had misheard.

  “I will accompany you,” Connie smiled. “This shall be fun, actually.” Her smile faded. “And it will keep my mind off of ... things.”

  Francesca stared. “You mean Neil.” The words just popped out, of their own accord.

  Connie’s face stiffened. “I did not say that.” She turned away, then back. “Please, Fran. I promise not to interfere, I will act as your steadfast companion, if that is what you want.”

  Francesca wanted to say no. She did not want to drag Connie along, especially because, if something dangerous did arise, she would be responsible for her sister’s welfare—and removing herself from danger had proved to be enough of a task in itself in the recent past. Also, she could not reveal to Connie that she was investigating a murder. Francesca had no doubt that Connie would have a conniption fit at the mere usage of a word like murder. She would also run straight to Neil with the information, no matter the state of their marriage. She might even tell on her to Bragg.

  But then it crossed her racing mind that Calder Hart had taken something of an interest in her sister—she had seen it in his eyes. And it might not be so easy gaining an audience with him—if she were alone.

  She hated using Connie. But how could it hurt—this one single time?