Deadly Pleasure

by Brenda Joyce

  “You are just getting in?” she gasped. It was two in the afternoon!

  He did not look up. “Go away, Francesca,” he said.

  She stiffened. “And you are drunk?”

  He finally sat up, only to slump against the back of the couch, his disinterested blue gaze on her. “I am three sheets to the wind, but is it your concern?”

  She came forward. “Why? And of course it is my concern; you are my brother and I adore you!”

  He waved at her. “You are such a good sister, Fran.” He was not mocking, as Evan had nary a sardonic bone in his body.

  She sat down beside him. “You seem so unhappy,” she whispered.

  “Do I?” His thick, slashing black brows lifted. “Good God, why would I be unhappy? Because I owe almost two hundred thousand dollars in gaming debts, which Father will not pay, or because, in less than six months, I shall stand at the altar and vow to love, honor, and cherish a woman I have not even the slightest affection for? God!” He groaned.

  She was trembling now and she took his hand before it could claim the whiskey glass. “You might come to love Sarah in time,” she whispered, but she knew he would not. Evan preferred vamps and coquettes. The women he turned his attentions on were all gorgeous, if not flamboyant—even the eligible young ladies. Sarah was a brilliant artist, but she was a mouse in comparison to the others. And they were opposites. They had nothing in common.

  But had he said what she thought he had?

  “Let us hope,” he said with a despondent shrug.

  “Perhaps you should try to get to know her, Evan. Perhaps you should visit her studio. If you saw her art, why, you might very well change your mind about her.”

  He gave her a dark look. “I am marrying a woman, not a masterpiece, my dear Fran. What difference could her talents make?”

  Francesca sighed. “She is a woman of passion. Hidden passion, but passion nonetheless.”

  He laughed. “You really believe that?” He laughed again. “I am sorry, Fran. But you are so naive. So terribly naive.” He patted her head.

  “Oh, stop it,” she snapped. “I am not as naive as you think.” She pushed his hand away.

  “You think Bragg is a knight in shining armor,” he replied evenly.

  “Hardly.”

  “You are in love with him.”

  “Not true.”

  “You think to outfox Mama and have your way and become Mrs. Police Commissioner.” He was triumphant. He lifted his glass in a toast and sipped. “Mama will never allow it.”

  “I have seen sex toys,” she said flatly.

  He choked. “What?” Scotch spilled all over his hand.

  “You heard.” She tried not to laugh at him.

  “Bragg?” His eyes were popping from his head. “I shall kill him, Fran, if he has so much as touched you!”

  “No, you will not, because my relationship with him is none of your affair. Besides, the toys were not his. They belong to a possible murder suspect.”

  “What?” He was on his feet. To his credit, he held his liquor well and hardly staggered. “Do not even begin to tell me you are getting yourself in something untoward and dangerous again! Have you not learned your lesson?”

  “Yes, I have.” She also stood. “Evan, Connie has taken the girls and left Montrose.”

  He froze.

  “And I do not know where she has gone. Montrose is furious—with me—and we must not tell Mama or Papa,” Francesca said, rapidly but firmly. It crossed her mind that she had promised Papa that she would speak with Evan about his behavior toward their father, but now was clearly not the time.

  He took her shoulders in his hands. “You had better explain yourself,” he said. And he no longer appeared inebriated at all.

  “I been wonderin’ where you been,” Joel said when she met him two hours later, again outside of the house. Francesca had just concluded Sunday dinner with her parents. Evan had refused to join them, preferring to sleep off his night of excess instead, after warning Francesca never to interfere in anyone’s private lives again. And he did mean Connie’s. Clearly, like Neil, he blamed Francesca for the entire disastrous separation. If that was what it was.

  Francesca still believed Connie would change her mind, come to her senses, and return home, hopefully at any moment. Evan agreed with Bragg. She should be left alone, and they would hear from her when she wanted to see them.

  Often Connie, Neil, and the girls joined them for Sunday dinner. Montrose had telephoned with their excuses. Mama had looked directly at Francesca while relating this, a question in her eyes. Francesca had smiled innocently back. Julia was clearly suspicious.

  Francesca had asked her parents if she could use the smaller of their two carriages in order to make some social calls. Now she directed their driver back to the Randall residence. “I have been a busy bee. Joel, we must locate Miss de Labouche. Have you heard anything at all about the Randall murder? Have you discovered Mr. Anthony’s whereabouts?”

  ‘Nope,” he said, rubbing his wool-clad arms. “Anthony must be a strange duck. No one seems to know where he lives. An’ he ain’t been around town these past few nights. His favorite saloon is Willard’s, on West Broadway. They ain’t seen him since Friday.”

  Francesca looked at him. “Friday—the night of the murder. Is that unusual?”

  Joel nodded. “He’s in just about every night, at least for a hand or two.”

  Francesca faced him squarely. “Does Mr. Anthony have an honest profession?”

  Joel grinned. “Like I said, he gambles.” He added, “An’ I beard he runs a good con.”

  “He is a con man?” she gasped.

  “Looks like it,” Joel said with a shrug.

  Francesca sighed. Anthony was hardly an honest man, apparently, and his sister did not have the purest of reputations. What if Bragg was right? What if Georgette was a possible suspect? For not only had she disappeared, but it seemed as if her brother had as well.

  “But a friend o’ mine got out of the Tombs this mornin’. She was hauled in for a reefing she didn’t even do! Bess knows yer new friends.” Joel was sly.

  “Daisy and Rose?” Francesca guessed, with renewed excitement. She had no idea what reefing meant and right then did not care. “Do tell!”

  “She heard ‘em talkin’ in the caboose. Guess what?” Joel leaned close and whispered, as if afraid their coachman would overhear, “Hart’s lyin’. He ain’t been with them two Friday night. They had other Johns.”

  Francesca stared at Joel. “Oh, dear,” she said, her heart sinking.

  * * *

  Henrietta Randall was indisposed when Francesca called, just before five that afternoon. Apparently she had left word with her maid and her son, for Francesca was promptly ushered into the very same parlor where she had been a few hours before, but this time Joel accompanied her. The maid informed her that Mr. Randall would be right down.

  “Funny room,” Joel said, wrinkling up his nose while touching a porcelain dolphin with a gold braid around his body. “What the heck is that?”

  “Most people think it is a fish, but it is actually a mammal, as it breathes air. It is called a porpoise, Joel.” Francesca paced, then stiffened as a man her own age appeared in the door.

  “Miss Cahill?” He smiled a little at her. He was of medium height, with dark brown hair, and neither attractive nor homely but somewhere in between.

  “Hello. You must be Bill Randall.” Francesca smiled warmly. She handed him one of her cards, and as he read it, she said, “I am so sorry about your father.”

  He tucked her card in the pocket of his leisure jacket and walked into the room. His regard was distraught, even pained. “And will you solve the crime?”

  “I hope so,” Francesca said evenly.

  He smiled a bit. “You seem very young to be a sleuth.”

  “I think we are almost the same age.”

  “I am twenty-one.”

  “I am twenty,” she said.

  The
y smiled. He invited her to sit and asked if she wished for some refreshments. Francesca declined. “We have just had our Sunday dinner.”

  He nodded. “How can I help you? And who is the boy?’

  “Joel is my assistant. He is very intimate with the city, and he was instrumental in helping me in my last investigation.” Joel smiled at that.

  Bill’s eyes widened. “For some odd reason, I just assumed this was your first case.”

  “No.” She shook her head firmly. “I worked closely with the police to solve the Burton Abduction.” She let him absorb that. It had been called the crime of the century at the time, and he seemed dutifully impressed. “Do you have any idea of who would want to kill your father?” Francesca asked.

  He stood. “I believe Mary has already told you who hated our father enough to murder him—in cold blood.” His eyes flashed.

  “So you are in agreement with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you also think Calder Hart is evil?”

  “Did Mary say that?” He shrugged. “He is a bastard, and by that, I do not refer to his birth. He enjoys hurting other people—he has enjoyed hurting this family immensely.”

  Francesca was uncomfortable now. She hoped that Bill Randall was exaggerating. Still, she imagined Hart might have a cruel side. “How has he hurt this family? Other than by murdering your father—if, indeed, he was the one to shoot him.”

  Bill stared, somewhat coldly. “He appeared here on our doorstep one day, introducing himself. My mother’s world ended, then and there. Is that not enough?”

  Francesca could imagine the shock of such an event—a man or boy appearing in a family’s midst and announcing that he was a part of it. “When was this?”

  “What does that have to do with my father’s murder?”

  “I am trying to comprehend Calder Hart,” Francesca said. But she could not help wondering now if Bill had hated his own father for hurting his mother so.

  “It was ten years ago. I will never forget the day, a very hot summer day, and we were packing in order to leave for our holiday in the Adirondacks. I was eleven years old. Needless to say, our vacation—our summer—was ruined.”

  “It must have been a shock.”

  Bill said nothing.

  “Have you seen the day’s papers?”

  Bill eyed her and said abruptly, “Yes.”

  “Specifically, the Times?”

  “What is it that you are trying to ask, Miss Cahill?” He was not friendly now.

  Francesca hesitated. “I wish to know how much you know about your father’s private life.”

  “I knew about his mistress. I’ve known for some time. Several years, I think.”

  Francesca got to her feet. She did not want to jump to conclusions, but perhaps Bill had a motive for murder, too. “Does your mother know? Does Mary know?”

  His jaw tightened. “Why?”

  “I am trying to solve a very complicated puzzle, Bill. Please bear with me.”

  He sighed. “Mother has known for years. It has been a huge cross to bear. But Mary, well, she so adores Father that she has been kept in the dark. I do not think she knew about that harlot until this morning.”

  Francesca was grim. Again, it was obvious that Bill had not been forgiving of his father’s indiscretions. And what about the wounded and aggrieved wife? Francesca thought to dismiss Henrietta as a possible murderess. She had met the woman, and the widow had seemed stricken by her loss, in spite of all the pain Randall had caused her. And she had also known about Georgette for years, so what motive could there be? Still, Francesca knew she must not jump to any conclusions yet. “I am sorry. Mary must be devastated.” This might explain her having called her father a saint earlier, Francesca thought.

  “She is devastated. I do not think she truly comprehends that Father had a secret life.”

  “Mary claims Hart was blackmailing your father. Did you know about that?”

  Bill laughed without mirth. “She is crazy. Hart, blackmailing Father? If that is the case, no one has told me.”

  Francesca was somewhat relieved.

  “So, you are rooting for the prime suspect, Miss Cahill?”

  “Am I so obvious?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am a friend of his brother, and I also think he is not what he would like the world to think he is,” she said.

  “If you think that way, then I doubt you will solve this case,” Bill said sharply, with some anger.

  Francesca was taken aback, and she stared at him.

  His expression changed. “I apologize; that was rude,” he said contritely. “In spite of the fact that I did not approve of my father’s secret life, I am as upset as anyone in this household.” He was rueful.

  Francesca smiled politely, but now, she wondered if it was true.

  Suddenly Mary walked into the room. She was pale, her expression drawn. Her eyes glittered. “Bill, Hart was blackmailing Papa,” she said, clearly having been outside the door, eavesdropping. “You have been away. You do not know what has been going on around here.” She sent Francesca an angry glance.

  Bill walked over to her. “Why don’t you go to your room and lie down? I will handle Miss Cahill. Do you want some laudanum?” he asked, his tone somewhere between kind and firm.

  Did he seek to soothe his sister—or send her away from the room? Francesca wondered.

  Mary’s face crumpled. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. Please believe me. Hart told Papa he would tell the world that he is his bastard son and, worse, the extent of his debts. I heard them. Papa was crushed, frightened. Hart was amused.” She turned to Francesca. “I hate him. He is the one. There is no doubt!’”

  “I can understand why you feel as you do,” Francesca said quietly. This was not looking good, she decided. First Hart’s alibi being disproved, if Joel’s friend was right, and now this blackmail scenario. Unfortunately, Francesca could see Hart toying with Randall in just such a manner as Mary described.

  Still, she had lied about having witnessed a conversation on the street the morning of the murder. But why?

  “Can you?” Mary asked with belligerence. She shook her head, tears suddenly falling, and she wrenched free of her brother. She ran from the room.

  Bill began to follow her, calling out. As he hurried past Francesca, she blinked. There was something so familiar about the way he strode toward the door, from this particular angle.

  It made her feel as if she were in a situation she had been in once before.

  The slim shoulders, the dark hair, the narrow, swift stride.

  It was like deja vu.

  He cursed. Softly, and almost inaudibly, beneath his breath.

  Francesca stiffened as comprehension struck with the force of a bolt of lightning.

  Bill Randall turned. “I am sorry. I do apologize. Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Cahill?”

  She could hardly breathe. For she was staring at the man who had been the silent intruder in Georgette de Labouche’s home just hours after the murder had taken place.

  THIRTEEN

  Sunday, February 2, 1902—6:00 P.M.

  Francesca was in a state. Once out on the street, she paused beneath the glow of a street lamp, hardly able to think clearly. It had begun to snow, and big, fat flakes dusted her shoulders and danced in the light’s halo.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Joel asked, tugging on the sleeve of her fur-lined coat.

  She hardly heard him. Bill Randall had walked into Georgette de Labouche’s house around midnight, looked at his father’s body, cursed, and walked out. How incredible; how strange.

  He could not be the killer.

  But somehow, he had known that the body was there. He had not been surprised to find it, his behavior indicated that he had expected to find it, and the fact that he had not run directly to the police added to the mystery.

  Was he protecting someone?

  Was he an accomplice?

  Instantly both Mary and H
enrietta shot to the top of her list of suspects. Still, Mary had adored her father. And Henrietta had known about her husband’s mistress for years.

  Francesca felt Joel’s hand on her arm. She looked down at him.

  “What is it?” he repeated insistently. “If I’m to be your assistant, you have got to tell me.”

  She bent close to his ear. “Randall’s the one who came into the house when I was hiding in the kitchen.”

  “Hell no!” Joel cried. Then, eyes narrowed, “Now ain’t that odd.”

  “Very. Joel, he lied. If I am right, Bill Randall lied, and he was in the city on the night of the murder.” She thought about that. Was there any way a murderer would return to the scene like that? Francesca did not think so. How unusual this case had become.

  “Joel, I am sending you home. I shall hire a hansom while my driver takes you back.” Her first instinct was to run to Bragg and tell him all that had transpired in the past few hours. But she hesitated. She had a few questions to ask Hart. It was just past six in the evening. She might be able to catch Hart at home now, but later he would undoubtedly be out. She also did not think she should call on him at a late and unusual hour.

  But she could call on Bragg at any time.

  “I don’t need to be home yet,” Joel protested.

  “It’s Sunday. You should go home and help your mother.” She paused. “I have two classes tomorrow morning,” she said reflectively. “Can you meet me at my house around noon? We shall spend the afternoon investigating. We must find a way to speak with the Randalls again, and we must find Georgette de Labouche,” she added vehemently. “Even I wish to speak with her again.”

  “I can spend the mornin’ while you’re in school askin’ around. She had to have friends. Someone has to know where she is,” Joel said.

  Francesca beamed at him and patted his back. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “Or perhaps you can locate her brother.”

  After he had climbed into the carriage, she closed the coach door and told Jennings to meet her at Hart’s after dropping Joel at his Avenue A flat. The coach rolled off; Francesca stepped into the street to look for a cab. And it was just her luck, a hansom was approaching and it was empty. Her hand shot up and she flagged it down.