by Brenda Joyce
Besides, a killer was out there, a killer who had to be brought to justice.
“Very well,” Francesca said, realizing she would have to put off her visit to Randall’s widow, for if Connie came along, the cat would be out of the bag. “But on one condition. You must swear that whatever transpires this day, you shall tell no one, Con, no one, and that includes both Neil and Bragg.”
Connie raised her right hand, as if her left were on the Bible while she was being sworn in to a public office. “I swear,” she said.
Somehow, Francesca was not relieved.
Connie’s four-in-hand, a very elegant black coach, paused before the entrance to No. 973 Fifth Avenue, about ten blocks uptown from the Cahill residence. “This cannot be it,” Francesca announced.
“That scribble is a three and not an eight; this must be it,” Connie returned, her hands inside of a rose-colored mink muff that matched both her ensemble and her coat.
Francesca stared at the huge mansion they faced. It was at least five stories high, and it was the only house on the block, the property taking up at least half of it. The rest of the lots were vacant, although one showed some signs of imminent construction. Sweeping lawns, now covered with snow, surrounded the house; a frozen pond and a guest cottage were in the back, as were tennis courts and a large stable. “This house is larger than our own. Could Calder Hart be that well off?”
“Perhaps he has ten children,” Connie said. She rapped on the window of the coachman’s cab. “Clark, please pull up in front of the house.”
“He did not act like a married man the other night,” Francesca said, and the moment she spoke she regretted her words, as she was thinking about Neil’s behavior.
Connie glanced at her. “He spoke with us for a minute or two. How could you tell anything in that period of time— during such a circus?” She blushed at the memory.
Francesca wondered what Connie would say if she told her about her client’s interest in sex toys and baths. “Unlike yourself, I was paying attention to Mr. Hart. I found him more interesting than that spectacle arranged for us by the very dissolute Mr. White.”
Connie flushed deeply. “I paid attention to Mr. Hart as well.”
“Balderdash. You could not take your eyes off of the performers.”
“Francesca, that is rude,” Connie said primly.
“I’m sorry. It was... titillating, to use Calder Hart’s word.” She patted her sister’s arm.
“It was hardly titillating. It was shocking and scandalous,” Connie said firmly.
“So you and Neil left?” Francesca had to ask, trying not to sound sly. Their brougham paused in front of the entrance to Hart’s stone mansion. Not surprisingly, a life-size statue of a stag graced the roof of the house just above the temple front that was the entrance.
“Actually, we stayed a bit longer.” Connie’s jaw tightened. “I had some trouble finding Neil in the crush.”
Francesca did not like the sound of that. Had his lover been present? Or had Neil been merely conversing with other guests? Francesca prayed that was the case.
Connie gave her a bright smile as Clark opened their door. “Shall we? Onward and upward to whatever it is that you are seeking?”
Francesca smiled and she stepped out of the carriage behind her sister, the coachman steadying her so she would not slip. She shivered in spite of her fur-lined coat. “This weather is enough to make one fantasize about Newport in the summer,” Francesca said. She had nothing against the beach, but she did not like Newport when it was a retreat for the city’s most artificial and most wealthy citizens. The most enchanting time of year was now, in the midst of a snowy winter, when one could take long solitary walks upon the beach, and the city itself was like a ghost town.
Connie was already knocking on the door. It was opened promptly by a manservant. “Shall I give him my card or shall you give him yours?” Connie asked.
Francesca was already handing her brand-new card to the butler, answer enough. “Please tell Mr. Hart that the Cahill sisters have come calling.”
When the butler left, they both glanced around. The foyer, which boasted a black-and-white grid pattern of marble floors, was large enough to host a small ball. Francesca had never seen such an oversized entry. The domed ceiling above them had been painted in a fresco, and clearly the subject was religious—people and angels and perhaps even devils were being swept up into heaven, or was it hell? As the sky was painted blue, Francesca hoped, fervently, that it was heaven, but the men, women and children seemed to be screaming, indicating that the experience was not a pleasant one—and perhaps the subject matter was the end of the world, the effect was so macabre.
She shivered.
Black marble columns were at both ends of the huge room, and at the far end, in between them, were two life-size statues of nude women. Francesca simply stared.
While the statues were beautiful, neither hands nor leaves covered anyone’s private parts. And both women were fleshy and voluptuous. One woman seemed to be running, as if pursued. Her long tresses were flowing about her ample hips and full breasts, and she seemed to be afraid, gazing over her shoulder, her eyes wide. Francesca tore her gaze away and met Connie’s wide eyes. They looked at each other and said not a word.
A long moment passed. Connie said, low, “Look at the paintings.”
Francesca hadn’t even noticed the two huge paintings on the two facing walls. She stared at an extremely graphic and realistic painting of a man in armor upon his back, perhaps dying, clearly wounded—a horse walking by him or even trotting upon him. She gave her sister a glance and walked over to the art.
“The Conversion of Saint Paul,” she whispered, reading the name of the painting aloud. It was powerful and disturbing and she shivered again.
Connie joined her and said, low, “Is he an atheist, do you think? I doubt the Church would approve of such a painting.”
“I hardly know the man,” Francesca said.
Footsteps sounded. They were brisk, assured. “What a pleasant surprise.”
They both turned quickly, in unison, as if two small girls with their hands in someone’s cookie jar.
Calder Hart was grinning. “And you are both admiring my Caravaggio?”
Francesca managed to hold out her hand. “Mr. Hart. Hello. Thank you for seeing us. And yes, we were admiring your art.”
“Really?” He bowed over her hand and looked at Connie, rather frankly. “Most of my guests find this painting, among others, to be rather irreligious, if not scandalous and shocking.” He smiled as if that amused him.
“It is somewhat irreverent,” Connie murmured. “Good day, Mr. Hart.”
“Please, you must call me Calder.” He bowed over her hand, and there was a gleam in his eyes. “Does it shock you?” he asked.
Connie tugged her hand from his as if he had held it for too long, which he had not. “It does not shock me, but I would never hang it in my own home,” she said, surprising Francesca with her uncustomary bluntness.
“So you do not care for it?” Hart asked.
“No, I do not.”
“And if your husband wished to own it?”
She stared at Hart. “Why, he should then own it. But I would never allow him to hang it in a public room, much less the entrance of our house.”
“Oh ho. You disapprove of me. Perhaps I need some guidance then, by a woman like yourself.”
Connie said, “You are unattached, Mr. Hart? There is no good woman who currently offers you the guidance you have spoken of?”
“I am a bachelor, if that is what you are asking. Confirmed, I might add.” He grinned.
“What a shame,” Connie said, as if she meant it. Francesca knew she did.
“Really? Most women seem pleased when they learn I am unequivocally available.” His grin widened. It was so devilish.
“Most single women,” Connie corrected.
His grin widened and he laughed. “Even the proper married ones,” he corrected.<
br />
Connie’s body stiffened. “I beg your pardon. A proper married woman would only care that you are a catch if she had a friend or a sister to match you to.”
He looked at her. “In your circle, perhaps.” Clearly, he did not believe her.
Francesca looked from one to the other as their rapid exchange occurred and did not like what was happening. The painting no longer disturbed Connie; clearly, she was disturbed by their host, who was flirting with her and not even hiding it. In fact, Hart was acting as if flirtation were hardly on his mind, for he looked at her sister as if she were his next prey. And that was simply unacceptable.
“Mr. Hart? Might we have a word with you?” Francesca interrupted them.
“Of course, Miss Cahill.” He faced Francesca, then said, “And do you also find the conversion of one of the Catholic Church’s most popular and sacred saints irreverent and shocking?”
She wet her lips. “I find it disturbing, but I have yet to think about why. Still, the artist is clearly a master, and the work is riveting.”
He nodded with approval. “I agree.” He glanced at Connie. “I am an avid collector. I should love to give you a tour of the house and the many masterpieces I have spent years acquiring. Perhaps I might change your opinion of art that does not neatly fit into the lives of most denizens of this city, like yourself.” He smiled at her.
“I doubt we have time for such a tour, Mr. Hart,” Connie said, and there was no mistaking that her we was a rebuttal to his you, which Francesca felt certain had not been intended as a plural pronoun.
He covered his heart with one hand and he was laughing. “Perhaps, in time, you will have a change of heart.” He then smiled at Francesca. “No pun intended, ladies. Do come with me.” He turned.
Francesca’s gaze met Connie’s. She gave her a look, one that she meant to be reassuring. Connie’s answering regard was both grim and annoyed, and maybe also angry. Her eyes seemed to say, This is just not right!
Francesca smiled a little and took her sister’s hand and they followed Calder Hart across the huge entry and into another vast room, this one a salon.
At first, Francesca saw only a dozen or more seating arrangements, the furnishings exotic. There were brocades, damask, and silks everywhere, striped patterns competing with paisleys, with few, if any, solid-colored fabrics anywhere. Two huge throne-like chairs seemed to be covered in real zebra skins. The salon was a kaleidoscope of warmth— of shades of red, gold, and amber, except, of course, for the two astonishing zebra chairs. The walls were painted a burnt orange; huge crystal chandeliers were overhead, and two of the room’s many rugs were leopard skins. Standing there in the midst of the eclectic room, Francesca felt as if she had entered another world, perhaps in the Middle East, or maybe even another time, centuries ago in Byzantium.
Connie poked her, her cheeks aflame.
Francesca followed her gaze and gasped.
The room was so busy that she hadn’t even noticed the paintings on the wall. The one Connie pointed at caused Francesca to stare, gaping. A curly-haired brunette lounged sensually amid rumpled white silk sheets. She was nude, flushed, even satisfied, and the way she was sprawling left very little to the imagination. The artist had rendered every inch of her with precision and the utmost care, although fortunately, her loins were covered. Still, the oil painting was excessive, graphic, and shocking.
Francesca had never seen anything like it.
Connie turned away, sitting down abruptly on a gold-print damask chair. She clasped her hands in her lap.
Francesca tore her gaze from the woman and looked at Calder Hart. His gaze was on Connie, and it was speculative now, while Connie stared at her hands. Francesca stared at their host. Did he like to shock his guests and the world in general? Or did he so love his art that he just did not care what anyone thought of him? And why would a bachelor build a home like this? How lonely it must be to float around in this vast, exotic palace with only servants for company.
He realized she was staring and he gestured. “Shall we sit?”
Francesca nodded and sat down beside her sister on a red love seat with burgundy cording. Hart took an armchair that was facing them both. Francesca tried to organize her thoughts. She had been so distracted since entering the house that she had almost forgotten why she was there in the first place. She had come to solve a murder, and the first order of business was to learn of his relationship with the recently deceased Paul Randall.
“So, Miss Cahill, how may I help you ... and your sister?” Hart asked. “I assume this is not a social call, as you presented me with the most unique calling card.”
Francesca and Connie exchanged glances. “No, I am sorry to say this is not a social call.”
He smiled and said, “I am dismayed.”
“Perhaps another time,” Francesca said.
“Yes, perhaps I will have the honor of taking you and your sister to lunch sometime. Say, this week?” He did not glance at Connie.
But Connie spoke before Francesca could respond. “That is extremely kind of you, Mr. Hart, but my calendar is full, this coming week.”
“Then in the week afterward?” He smiled at her, and it was a smile that was very potent indeed. Francesca wondered if she had ever met any man with more charisma. At the least, she had never met anyone so ruthless in his use of it before.
“I shall have to check my book,” Connie said ruefully. Francesca knew she was only being polite and had no intention of having lunch with their host.
“Please do,” Hart said, apparently not dissuaded. He turned to Francesca. “How may I help you?”
Francesca straightened. “I have recently acquired a client, Mr. Hart. Miss Georgette de Labouche. I wondered if you were acquainted with her?”
If he knew Miss de Labouche, if her name was at all familiar, he gave no sign. Nor did he smile at its comical interpretation. “No. And what is this about?”
Francesca hesitated. How best to proceed? “Miss de Labouche is a dear friend of Paul Randall. I believe you are an acquaintance of his?” Francesca smiled.
He did not return her smile. His tone changed, becoming cool. “I know Randall,” he said.
“How?” Francesca asked eagerly. “Do you have business dealings? Are you friends?”
Hart stood. “I hardly see how this is any business of yours, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca was stunned by his change in personality. “Am I somehow intruding?”
“Yes, you are,” he said bluntly.
Connie stood. “Francesca, perhaps we should leave. I fear we have overstayed our welcome.”
Francesca ignored her, her eyes glued to Hart’s. Hart also ignored her sister now. “Mr. Hart, I apologize if I am intruding, but your relationship to Paul Randall might very well be crucial to my investigation.”
“And just what the hell are you investigating. Miss Cahill?” he demanded.
She wet her lips. “Paul Randall is dead, Mr. Hart,” she finally said. “And I am investigating his murder.”
Connie gasped. Francesca only vaguely heard her, because she was watching Hart so closely. Of course, she did not suspect him of anything, except perhaps of being a friend or associate of Randall. But his expression changed. Something passed through his eyes, so quickly she could not tell what the emotion was. Had it been surprise? Or something else, something she was not astute enough to recognize?
Calder Hart stared grimly at her.
“He was murdered last night, Mr. Hart,” Francesca said. “I am sorry to be the one to tell you, but now you can see why I must know the nature of your relationship.”
Hart turned away. He crossed the room. Not far from where they sat was a silver liquor cart. Francesca’s eyes widened as she watched him pour a drink, then slam down half of it. “Mr. Hart?”
He remained with his back to her, and he finished the whiskey. Then he refilled the glass.
Connie plucked her sister’s sleeve. She was standing, and her eyes were wide with disappr
oval. “I think it is time for us to go,” she said low.
Francesca shook her head.
Hart turned. He held up his glass as if in a toast. “You have made my day, Miss Cahill,” he said then, and his smile was more than mocking. It was a sneer. “Randall is dead. Hurrah.” He drank.
Connie surprised everyone then, perhaps even herself. She moved swiftly forward, to Hart’s side, and she took the glass from his hand. “You are upset. I apologize for my sister, who means no harm—but sometimes suffers from terrible lapses in grace and common sense. Please. Sit down. Let me call your man, Mr. Hart.”
“How kind you are,” he mocked. He tilted up her chin. “I wonder how far your kindness would go—given the right circumstances?”
Francesca understood his meaning and she gasped. Connie did not pull away for a moment, and she stared as if hypnotized at their host.
Hart released her. He smiled and looked at Francesca. “The answer to your question is a simple one. And now that Randall is dead, I have no problem answering it.”
Connie backed away from Hart. She was white. Francesca took her hand tightly. This man was frightening.
“I am his son,” Calder Hart said. “His bastard son.” He smiled at them both, and it was chilling.
SIX
Francesca stared at Hart, horrified.
He was Randall’s son?
“Dear God,” Connie whispered, white with the very same shock.
“Mr. Hart! I am so sorry; I had no idea,” Francesca began, wringing her hands. Her mind was racing, and it was filled with accusations, mostly directed at herself. She had just told a man that his father was dead, and she would regret her lapse forever. But how could she have known? And why hadn’t Bragg been round to inform Hart of the murder? Surely Bragg knew that Randall was his half brother’s father!
“You are sorry that Randall is dead, or for having been the bearer of such ill tidings?” Hart asked coolly.
“Both,” Francesca whispered, mortified.
Connie stepped between them. “We have bungled terribly!” she cried. “I can only beg your forgiveness, and if I had known what Francesca was up to, I would have never allowed it!” She shot Francesca a furious glare. It said, How could you?
